


Campfire Stories

by terminallypretty



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 20:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 125,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4759199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terminallypretty/pseuds/terminallypretty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the solemn hours of the night, a world-weary pirate and an irrepressible orphan girl come together to share the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The glow of dying embers bathed the campsite in warm, muted light. The other members of Balthier's party were sleeping around the outer edge of the fire, sprawled haphazardly, curled in on themselves, or tangled in bedrolls to protect from the chill of the night air. And...one other, not sleeping at all.

Vaan's steady rumble of a snore would have warded off all but the most determined of predators, but nonetheless, it was Balthier's turn to keep watch. And so he sat upon a mossy boulder, surveying the flat landscape of the Tchita Uplands, occasionally tossing an extra branch upon the dying fire to extend its life.

Ashe twisted fretfully beneath her blanket, her brow drawn into a frown. Basch lay silent and still near her, the hilt of his sword clenched in his fist even in sleep, lest an enemy take him unawares. Fran curled on her side, one ear relaxed in sleep and curled towards her forehead. Vaan lay splayed upon his back, snoring peacefully. And Penelo...Penelo was gazing up at the night sky, one arm resting over her stomach and the other aimed up with her fingers outstretched as though she thought she might catch a star.

"You ought to sleep," Balthier murmured low, though he was sure none of the others would wake at the sound of his voice if even Vaan's racket failed to stir them. "We're trying for the Phon Coast tomorrow."

"How could I sleep?" Penelo whispered back. "There's so many stars tonight. Have you ever seen so many?"

Balthier squinted at the sky, but the inky black night looked the same to him as it always had. "I've never had reason to count them, so I couldn't say. Surely you've seen stars before."

She shrugged, a disarmingly elegant rise and fall of her shoulders that seemed strangely incongruous with what he knew of her. A street urchin, an errand girl, and, more recently, a thief when the need struck. How had she acquired that fluid grace?

"Until a month ago, I'd never left Rabanastre. The city lights drown out most of the stars, I guess. I've never seen them like this - the sky's thick with them." He heard the wonder in her voice, and it made him wish, suddenly, that he could see the stars through her eyes, experience the magnitude of fascination that she did.

"You'd never left Rabanstre?" He seized on that, perplexed that someone could live the entirety of their life never having left the city they were born to.

"No," she murmured. "Even when my parents were alive, we weren't rich. Traveling generally costs money. It wasn't the sort of expense we could afford." A wistful sigh followed. "So I'd never even been out of the city walls until Vaan went missing while running an errand for Dalan. The walls were for safety, and I knew that, but I resented it. But even the walls didn't keep out the Imperial army. Those same walls that kept me in couldn't keep invaders out, so what were they really good for? They weren't walls, they were just a cage providing the illusion of safety."

"Safety itself is an illusion," Balthier countered. "A cage could never provide safety against a truly determined enemy. People like illusions and the sense of security they provide. Illusions mean one need never worry for their own safety."

"I don't like them." She shifted to her side, turning her attention to him. "I spent my whole life inside those walls. I spent my childhood trying to catch glimpses of the stars. And now that I can finally see them, I don't ever want to go back to that cage. I know every inch of Rabanastre, every alley, every shop, every merchant. But I don't want to languish away in my tiny corner of the world, never having seen what's beyond it." She flopped onto her back again, spreading her arms wide. "Haven't you ever just looked at the stars, Balthier? Haven't you ever just _looked_ and..and wondered? There could be another world out there - hundreds of them, maybe - like ours. Worlds we've never seen, never dreamed of."

The fire hissed and crackled, jerking Balthier out of his reverie - because for a moment there, he'd been staring at the sky, wondering like she did. And for just a moment, he, too, had seen the glittering stars full of mysteries and possibilities. But now they were ordinary again, just tiny flecks of gilt across the velvety black night sky. He reached down, gathered a few branches, and tossed them onto the fire. The hungry flames licked upwards, devouring, setting glowing bits of ash adrift in the air.

"I think perhaps you'd better sleep," he said finally. "If you're to be at your best tomorrow, you'll need rest. And I'm to wake Vaan for his watch soon. There will be opportunities to consider the stars after we reinstate her highness." He nodded to indicate Ashe, now stretched out on her stomach, head pillowed on her folded arms.

Neither of them voiced the ever-present knowledge that each day could be their last, that in the face of such incredibly daunting odds, their chances of success dwindled by the day and these quiet hours of night might very well be all they'd ever have.

Penelo sighed heavily. "You're right. Of course. Good night, Balthier." She shifted onto her side, her back to him, curling up tightly. But her right hand remained outstretched toward the horizon, where the moon hung low in the sky, holding court encircled by a glistening retinue of stars.

Slowly her breathing grew deep and even. And instead of waking Vaan for his shift, Balthier kept watch over the terrain and party until moonset, until the hazy pink rays of dawn tinted the horizon...but mostly he kept watch over Penelo.


	2. Chapter 2

Dusk fell swiftly in this part of Ivalice, it seemed. The lilac hues cast upon the clouds by the setting sun faded into the night that settled over the region, and one by one, stars crept out of hiding to decorate the sky. They hadn't made the Phon Coast as planned, having been waylaid by more than one pack of hungry coeurls.

It hadn't helped, too, that Penelo had lagged behind most of the journey, which had irritated Balthier excessively. No doubt a few hours of sleep had not been enough to set her to rights, and she'd found herself too tired to be at her best. As he'd warned she might. Circumstances being what they were, he could not manage to dredge up any sympathy for her plight, not even considering that she, Basch, and Ashe were to take watch tonight.

Their group trudged into a clearing near the river that snaked through the Uplands to the Phon Coast. Atop a small rise, it would be a prime place to rest for the night - beasts could be seen approaching from a distance, the river was close and convenient for bathing, but not so close for the sound of the water to drown out that of an approaching enemy.

Basch, too, had clearly considered these things, for he dropped his sack and bedroll, saying simply, "We stop here for the night."

Penelo's sigh of relief was echoed by more than one. Still, she brushed her bangs from her face and said, "I'll go for fire wood."

Fran stopped her with a hand on the shoulder. "You will rest. I shall fetch the wood." Her hand squeezed Penelo's shoulder almost imperceptibly, as if delivering a secret message. A moment's hesitation - then Penelo gave a brief nod, acquiescing to Fran's pronouncement. She busied herself with laying out her bedroll, arranging her small sack of belongings to form a makeshift pillow beneath it.

"I'm tired of eating biscuits," Vaan said. "Balthier, let's go see if we can catch some real food. I've seen some rabbits around here."

Balthier did find the prospect of an actual meal enticing, so he relieved himself of his own bedroll and said, "Lead the way, then." But he tarried just a bit behind Vaan, looking over his shoulder in time to catch Penelo collapsing wearily onto her bedroll.

\--

It was dark by the time Balthier and Vaan returned, arms laden with the small game that was plentiful in the area. Basch, Ashe, and Fran were gathered around the fire, having already set up a spit constructed of branches upon which to roast whatever Vaan and Balthier had managed to bag. Penelo was tucked under her blanket, back to the fire, clearly asleep. Balthier moved to rouse her, but Fran's voice stopped him.

"Leave her be. We shall wake her once the food is prepared."

Ashe shuddered as Vaan efficiently cleaned their kills, and Balthier couldn't blame her. He'd come from a life of privilege and had rarely stopped to consider the processes between the catching of the game and its presentation on the dinner table.

Vaan tossed the cleaned meats to Basch, who spitted them and stuck them over the blazing fire. The meat sizzled and the fat melted down, sizzling as it dripped into the fire beneath. Soon enough, the scent of cooking food filled the small campsite, and Penelo stirred beneath her blankets.

Vaan sliced a good chunk of meat off with his dagger, and moved to where Penelo lay to dangle it over her nose.

"Wake up, Pen. We've got food. Real food!"

Penelo groaned her displeasure at having been woken, but she lifted herself into a sitting position, narrowly avoiding the hunk of roasted rabbit hitting her on the head. She accepted the offering with a murmur of thanks, and picked daintily at her food in silence.

In fact, silence reigned over the party, as they had gone too long on hard biscuits and dried meats. No one had the time or inclination for words as they passed cuts of meat around, devouring all that their stomachs would hold.

Penelo surrendered first. She stood, examining her hands. "I'm going to go wash up at the river."

Balthier lifted his head from his meal long enough to say, "You ought to take someone with you."

But she was already headed out of camp, disappearing into the darkness. "I'll be fine," she tossed over her shoulder. "I'll be within shouting distance, I promise."

Some time later, Basch cleaned up the remnants of their dinner, burying the bones a distance from the camp. Penelo still had not returned, and Balthier was growing concerned.

"We ought to go find her," he found himself saying aloud as he poured water from his canteen into his hands to clean them of the aftereffects of his meal.

Ashe tilted her head to the side, regarding him curiously. "The river is less than a hundred feet away," she said. "Surely if something had happened, she would have called out."

"Penelo can handle herself," Vaan assured him. "We grew up on the streets. She's not helpless."

"I didn't intend to insinuate she was," Balthier replied. "But this is not _the streets_ , this is the wilderness, the Tchita Uplands, and for a girl who has never ventured beyond Rabanastre, it can be treacherous."

"Be that as it may," Ashe said carefully, "sometimes a girl merely needs a bit of privacy, of which there has been precious little of late."

Balthier had no argument for that, so he subsided into a vaguely sulky silence. After a moment, Fran, who had been observing Balthier quietly, rose.

"I shall go in search of Penelo," she said. "Our canteens shall require refilling, besides." She collected them, and set off into the night towards the river.

By the time they returned, Balthier, Basch, and Vaan had already settled into their bedrolls, and Ashe had taken up first watch. Fran shooed Penelo towards her bedroll, and, after a whispered conversation that was too low for Balthier to hear, Penelo went. Satisfied that all members of their party were present and accounted for, Balthier settled onto his back and slept.

\--

In the early hours of the morning, Balthier awoke to an unfamiliar sound. Years of piracy had trained him to react instinctively to such noises, and he reached for his gun. He shot up, pulling back the hammer, the metallic sound defeaning in the still of the night.

A gasp from a few feet away. He turned toward the sound, aiming his gun at...Penelo, awake for her watch, blue eyes wide and surprised.

A low, nervous laugh bubbled out of her. "D'you think you might _not_ shoot me, please?" But her eyes slid away, as if she had been caught at something shameful.

He set down his weapon, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"What are you up to?" he asked.

"Nothing. Nothing!" She tugged her pant leg down, squirming like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "It's my watch; that's why I'm up."

"You are a _terrible_ liar," he said dismissively, rising. He trudged over to where Penelo sat, crouched down beside her, and hiked the right leg of her pants up to her knee. A wide bandage stretched around her calf, soaked through with blood. His eyes shot to her face, which was averted, though her cheeks were flushed with angry color, her mouth drawn into a thin line.

"Are you finished?" she asked tightly.

And suddenly, he was as angry as she was, angry that he had not known, angry that today he had thought poorly of her when in reality her lethargy hadn't been lethargy at all - it had been pain.

"No," he snapped back at her. He felt for the edge of the bandage, peeling it back slowly, wincing as it stuck, pulling at her injured flesh. He glanced at her face to see if he had hurt her, but her chin was tilted up stubbornly, eyes blazing with anger. Still, she let him draw back the bandage, exposing the injury. Two long, jagged rends in her flesh, deep, and still welling blood - although he supposed it could be due to his not entirely gentle handling. He stroked his thumb across the downy softness of her skin, where the flesh was smooth and unmarred.

"One of the coeurls?" he asked.

Her reply was a short nod, more a jerk of her head than anything.

"I didn't see you bandage it."

"No one pays very much attention to me," she said. "It was easy. I changed the bandage at the river this evening, but it's still bleeding."

"It wants stitching," he said. "The wounds are too deep."

"I seem to have left my needle and thread back in Rabanastre," she said, exasperated.

"Well, then, I suppose it's a good thing I've got mine in my bag," he shot back. At her sly look, he huffed, "I've had to sew myself up on more than one occasion - being a pirate is not without its risks."

He stalked across the campsite, retrieving his bag, fishing through it until he found the items he was looking for. As he sterilized the needle in the fire, he asked, "Why didn't you tell anyone you'd been injured?"

She shrugged. "What good would it have done? We still have to make the Phon Coast as soon as possible. I was already slowing us down." As an afterthought, she added, "Fran knew. She's been looking out for me today. I didn't tell her, but...she said she could smell the blood."

At least that explained Fran's uncharacteristic coddling. Gods knew Fran had never coddled _him_.

"We would have slowed our pace for you," he chided.

"Blast you, we can't _afford_ to slow down," she bared her teeth in aggravation. "Every delay is one more day Dalmasca is stuck under Archades' thumb."

He was, frankly, surprised at her determination. So he distracted her from her anger, deftly threading the needle, then holding it out to her. "Would you be more comfortable doing it yourself?"

She shuddered. "No. Please. I can't do it myself."

"It's going to hurt. Do you need something to bite down on? Screaming would wake the others as well as give away our location."

"I'll be fine," she said, and her tone suggested annoyance, as if she thought he considered her weak.

When he put the needle to her flesh and pushed it through, he flinched - but she did not. As quickly and carefully as possible, he stitched her wounds closed, hoping that the process didn't cause too much pain. By the time he knotted and cut the last thread, she was pale and sweating, but she hadn't made a sound. He was sweating, as well. It had actually mattered to him whether or not he was causing her pain, and he found that...baffling.

He unscrewed the lid of his canteen and poured a liberal amount of water over the wounds, washing away the blood. She reached for her bag, pulling out a length of clean bandage, and winding it around her calf. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he tipped back the canteen and swallowed a good half of the remaining water, then offered the rest to her. She took it gratefully, and he noticed her fingers trembled as she drank.

"You ought to have told someone," he repeated. "Vaan. He's your friend. If not the rest of us, then him, surely."

She shook her head. "He would've worried. Worry is weakness. Weakness gets you killed. It gets exploited. We're safer if no one else knows. Besides, Vaan rushes into things. He'd get us all killed trying to protect me. He's got the best of intentions, but his actions are usually a few steps ahead of his good sense."

Balthier sighed. "While I do not disagree with your judgment of Vaan, wherever did you get a ridiculous notion like that? Worry is inevitable."

"Not," she said, "if you grew up as I did. When everthing you love is taken from you, you learn not to care. If you care about something, it will be used against you. The Imperials taught me that. I have no family. I have no home. I have nothing but the clothes on my back and the belongings in my bag. Why do you think it was so easy to leave Rabanastre?"

She took another long drink from the canteen, then tugged the leg of her pants back down over the bandage. "I thought I was coming along on this mission for Vaan, to keep him out of trouble, like I promised Reks I would. I really thought it was noble, heroic even. But the truth is, it's entirely selfish. In Rabanastre, I was adrift. Not really alive, just...surviving. And only barely that."

"Out here," she continued, the hand holding the canteen gesturing in a wide arc, "I am anchored. I have a purpose. I couldn't save my family or Vaan's, but maybe I can help save someone else's. Maybe, if we succeed, somewhere in Rabanastre there's a little girl who will still have her family." Her voice broke, and she dropped her head onto her folded arms, but her lips curved into a bitter smile. "And if we don't succeed...well, then, who is going to mourn?"

And Balthier was at a loss for words, because she was right. If they failed, there was no one to mourn an orphan girl from Rabanastre.

And still, he surprised himself by saying, "I would."

A tiny flutter of laughter. "But if we fail, you'll be dead, too."

He shrugged. "I've been dead inside for years." He tried to infuse a dry humor into the words, but they came out flat and honest instead.

"Adrift?"

"I suppose."

She reached over and patted his knee, a smile wise beyond her tender years etched upon her lips. "Find your anchor, Balthier."

And suddenly he was the tiniest bit afraid that he just had.


	3. Chapter 3

The heat of the day was overwhelming. Balthier's hair was plastered to his head, dripping sweat down the back of his neck. The rest of the party fared little better. Even Fran's ears drooped under the unrelenting heat, which rose off the plains before them in rolling waves and beat down upon them in scorching rays. Basch forged ahead, wading through the tall grass, making a path for Ashe, who trailed along in his wake. Vaan slunk along after them, head down, concentrating only on navigating the cleared path before him. Penelo followed, silent, trudging along as if each step were an ordeal - which probably they were, given her injury. Balthier and Fran brought up the rear, both studying the girl in front of them.

"She's limping," Balthier remarked.

"Not enough to attract the notice of the others," Fran replied.

"I sewed up those wounds only last night, and she's still determined to make the Phon Coast today," he said, irritation coloring his words. "Stubborn little fool. She'll be lucky if they heal properly; she's likely to tear the stitches right out."

"No," Fran said, "She'll be lucky if she makes the Phon Coast alive."

Balthier tripped over his own feet, but collected himself before his lapse was noticed by anyone but Fran. "What do you mean?"

"This heat, this climate, the dirt and dust? She risks infection poisoning her blood." Fran's voice was calm, but the serene recitation of such risk irrationally angered him.

"Someone ought to tell her-"

"She is quite aware," Fran interrupted. "I explained it to her myself yesterday at the river."

Muttering a blistering string of invectives, he surged ahead to catch up to Penelo, deliberately ignoring Fran, who tried to call him back.

Penelo started, then winced at the sharp movement when Balthier appeared beside her. "You don't have to babysit me. I'm fine," she muttered, keeping her voice low.

" _You...are...not_." he ground out. "Were you indeed aware you risk _death_ just to continue on to the Phon Coast?"

"Keep your voice down!" she snapped at Balthier.

Vaan glanced over his shoulder quizzically.

Penelo was silent until Vaan's attention turned back to the trail ahead of him. "Yes, I'm _aware_. At what point on this journey have we _not_ risked death?" Her faced was flushed, but whether anger or the heat was the cause, Balthier could not determine.

"You cannot equate falling victim to infection with assassins," he retorted hotly. "One is an unavoidable hazard of the cause, while the other-"

"Is also unavoidable," she shot back. "Besides water, which might also be contaminated for all I know, I don't have any antiseptics or cleansing agents. Reaching the Phon Coast is my best chance of avoiding infection."

The toe of her boot snagged in a clump of grass, and she went down hard, barely stifling a cry as she fell, catching herself on her hands. Balthier was beside her in an instant, gently lifting her back to her feet. But her fall had gained her the attention of the others as well, and she forced a neutral expression as they gathered around.

"Penelo, are you hurt?" Ashe asked, laying a hand on her shoulder.

Penelo hesitated. "I tripped," she said lamely. "I should have been paying attention. I'm sorry." She squirmed under Balthier's pointed glare, waiting for him to expose her. But he merely thrust his canteen at her. She stared at him blankly.

"Your canteen is empty," he said. "I haven't seen you touch it in more than an hour. Dehydration is a danger in these parts."

"Oh." Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but took the canteen he offered. "Thank you."

"I've got water, too, Pen, if you need some." Vaan tapped his own canteen. "Just let me know."

"We've much ground to cover yet," Basch said. "We must keep moving."

Ashe waved off Basch's announcement. "We can stop if you need to rest, Penelo."

"Oh, she's _fine_." Balthier remarked scathingly, stalking off ahead of Basch. "She _just tripped_."

Vaan squinted at Balthier's retreating back, scratching the back of his head. "Man, what's got him all bent out of shape?"

Penelo shrugged noncomittally, twisting the cap off Balthier's canteen to take a drink. "Maybe the heat makes him cranky."

\--

"There's a settlement not far from here," Balthier said. Dusk had fallen, and they'd crossed into the Phon Coast hours ago. "It's a hunter's camp, but they'll have merchants from whom we may purchase supplies."

"We'd do better to avoid the settlements if possible," Basch replied. "Especially in an area such as this - travelers are noticed. We need to remain invisible for the time being."

"We must replenish our supplies, and this settlement has no particular political afiliations. It is our safest option," Balthier argued.

"Basch, please, let's stop there for the night. I'm sure we could all use the respite," Ashe said. But she was looking at Penelo as she spoke. "Just one night when no one has to take watch. I fear the days are wearing on us."

"I could use a break," Vaan volunteered.

"I'll require more arrows soon enough," Fran said. She, too, regarded Penelo with concern, which worried Balthier, as Fran's face seldom betrayed emotion. If Fran was wearing her thoughts so openly, then they truly did need to reach the camp with all due haste.

"The Hunter's camp it is, then," Balthier said. He directed them to the left, down a slope and through a narrow passage.

The grass of the Phon Coast grew lush and green here, and the heat of the day had faded to a humid warmth. The rolling hills slid down into the coastal region, where they would find the camp near the shore.

Beside Balthier, Penelo rubbed her arms briskly to ease the gooseflesh that rose there.

"You can't be cold," he said. "It's still rather warm."

But she turned at the sound of his voice, and in the muted light remaining, her eyes were bright and glassy, her cheeks flushed, and this time he was sure it was neither heat nor anger.

Vaan let out a whoop of glee. "I see it! There's a fire!" he shouted back to them. And there was - in the distance, a faint flickering light lent its glow to the horizon.

"Just a little further," he urged Penelo in a low voice. "It's not far now."

"Thank the gods," she murmured. She took two steps, then wilted like a flower. This time, Balthier caught her, lifting her in his arms. Her head dropped back against his shoulder, the heat of her skin scorching him through his linen shirt.

"Penelo!" Vaan came rushing toward him, skidding to a stop as Balthier stalked past him, continuing towards the camp. He fell into step beside Balthier, asking angrily, "What did you do to her?" He patted her cheek gently, trying to rouse her, then jerked his hand back in surprise.

" _I_ did nothing," Balthier's withering tone brought Vaan up short.

"She's burning up," Vaan accused.

"She's got an infected wound that requires attention; we need to get her to the camp as quickly as possible," Balthier responded.

"I'll take her." Basch reached for Penelo, but Balthier drew back.

"I've got her." Something in his tone made Basch withdraw and earned him a curious look from Ashe. The rest of the party flanked Balthier, guarding him and Penelo against any beasts that might draw near.

"When did this happen?" Ashe asked.

"Early yesterday. She's been keeping it hidden."

"But why?"

"Stubornness. Pride. Being a bloody idiot." He blew out a furious breath, trying not to jostle Penelo as they traversed the sandy slope and neared the camp. "Some nonsense about not wanting anyone to worry."

"Ahh," Basch mused. "She didn't wish to hold us back."

Ashe reached out to brush Penelo's bangs back from her flushed face. "You dear, foolish child," she murmured, but her voice was fond and indulgent. "When you recover, I'm going to have to give you a lecture the likes of which you've never before received."

" _If_ she recovers," Basch said gravely. "Such illnessess have felled many before. It may already be too late."

Balthier bristled. "She'll recover," he said. "She's too damned stubborn not to."

"Why, Balthier," Ashe pressed one palm over her heart in a mockery of shock. "I might almost think you _cared_."

Balthier managed a semblance of a shrug, keeping his tone light and bereft of any betraying emotion. "She's a good thief, a decent fighter, and proficient with magicks. We need her."

The words _I need he_ r rose in his mind, but he dismissed them. What use could he have for such a foolhardy, willful girl? And yet he still felt protective of her - he had not been willing to surrender her to Basch's care, for reasons he himself did not fully understand. Perhaps it was merely guilt over her injury, guilt that she had suffered alone and in silence because no one had noticed her pain.

"We do need her," Ashe said, "I'll not argue there. Though I've no reason to expect such loyalty from her, I shall be forever grateful for it, and I'll not repay it with indifference. Vaan, you go ahead and inquire about possible accommodations and medical attention. Balthier, step lightly if you please, she ought not be moved overmuch."

Vaan ran off to do Ashe's bidding, and was waiting just outside the camp when they arrived a few minutes later, a healer at his side.

The hunter's camp had nothing that could even vaguely qualify as an inn, so Vaan got to work setting up a campsite of sorts as the healer, a woman called Aryne, took a cursory glance at Penelo's injury. Her mouth set in a thin line, Aryne prodded gently at the seeping wound, grimacing as it produced yellow pus.

"Put her down," she said. "Those stitches will have to come out; they're holding the infection inside." She drew a pouch from the pocket of her skirt, and from it produced a small mortar and pestle, and an assortment of herbs. These she crushed in the mortar with a bit of water to make a thick paste.

Balthier laid Penelo gently upon her bedroll, carefully rolling up the leg of her pants to expose the wound. Aryne knelt beside her, setting the bowl of paste within reach, and unsheathed a small blade. As she gently tugged the sharp blade through the stitches, the wound freely wept blood and pus. Once the thread had been removed, she doused the swollen, rent flesh with clean water, and carefully slathered the thick paste over them.

"The poultice should draw the infection to the surface," Aryne explained. "It has already progressed to a dangerous degree. I can't give you a guarantee that she will live. I can only do so much; she must do the rest."

"Whatever assistance you can render will be much appreciated," Fran said, gently smoothing Penelo's hair away from her face. Her mouth drew into a frown as she gauged the heat eminating from the unconscious girl. "Her fever is far too high, it must be brought down. Ashe, you must disrobe her. I'll need some cloth as well."

Ashe made a motion intended to shoo the men away, but Aryne stayed her.

"No; they will have to hold her down while I cauterize the wounds," she said.

" _Cauterize_?" Balthier seethed. "Are you _mad_?"

Aryne thrust out her chin. "For a wound of this nature, out in these parts, cauterization is her best chance. This is, of course, provided that the poultice has cleansed the wound, for if it hasn't, then nothing will save her."

Fran had doused a cloth in some water from her canteen and was concentrating on bathing Penelo's overheated skin. Ashe had already managed to work Penelo's shirt off, and was considering how best to remove her pants without having to drag them down over the wound.

"For gods' sake," Balthier swore as he reached for a dagger, kneeling down beside Ashe, who gasped as he brandished the weapon. He hooked a finger beneath the waist of Penelo's pants, and dragged the blade down, cleanly rending the fabric.

"You ought to let me do that," Ashe chastised. "A young lady in her underthings..."

"Please, I'm hardly ogling her," Balthier snapped. "She's ill, and besides, she hasn't got anything I haven't seen before, and in more impressive proportions." But he stepped back, and allowed Ashe, in her offended dignity, to drag the ruined garment away from Penelo on her own.

As the women worked to cool Penelo, who shook under an onslaught of chills, Aryne plunged her dagger into the burning coals of the hunter camp's center fire to heat, then returned to carefully wash away the poultice. At her sigh of relief, Balthier let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"The blood runs clean," she said. "She may make it through this after all. Ladies, you may wish to stay back for this. It is not for the faint of heart." She directed Vaan to retrieve her heated dagger, and instructed Balthier into position near Penelo's head to hold down her arms and shoulders, and Basch to her feet to hold her legs.

"Be prepared," she warned Basch and Balthier. "You will have to hold her down with all your strength. It's instinctual to fight under cauterization."

" _C-cauterization_?" Penelo's weak, thready voice held a note of panic. She'd come to, and Balthier wished with everything in him that she hadn't. Ruthlessly, he tamped down the sympathy that rose in him, pity over what she was to endure. He shoved her shoulders down, clamping her arms to her sides like a vise.

"Please don't let her burn me," she whimpered. " _Please_ , Balthier." The fever flush had faded from her face, leaving an unnatural pallor in its wake. Tears trickled freely, running down the sides of her face to disappear into the hair at her temples.

Vaan came running back, a cloth wrapped around the hilt of the glowing dagger to protect his hand from the heat. Penelo trembled. Her terrified eyes darted up to Balthier's, her blue-grey irises nearly eclipsed by her pupils.

"You must be strong," Balthier whispered to her, as Vaan passed the dagger over to Aryne. "In time, this will be nothing but a memory."

And Aryne pressed the heated flat of the blade to her skin.

Penelo's shriek of agony wrenched Balthier's heart, but he and Basch forced her limbs still though she strained under them. The smell of scorched flesh stung Balthier's nose. After an eternity, Aryne lifted the blade and turned it to the last wound. Another piercing cry ended on a pitiful wail, and Penelo went limp.

Balthier let out an unsteady breath. Although Basch rose to confer with the others, Balthier remained seated, unsure if his legs would support him. Instead, he resumed the task of cooling Penelo's fever. Aryne brought him a bowl filled with clean water, several clean cloths, and began her own work applying a salve to the wounds and wrapping them with fresh bandages.

Ashe and Fran rejoined him shortly thereafter to take up the mantle of nursemaids once again.

"Aryne said the bandages must be changed three times a day," Ashe said, "And she has kindly provided us with a bottle of salve as well. Balthier, do you need a moment? You look a touch shell-shocked."

He shook his head as if to clear it. "She trusted me," he muttered. "She asked me not to let Aryne cauterize her. She trusted me to help her." He stood, shoving a hand through his hair. "She _trusted_ me. Why the bloody hell would she go and do a fool thing like that?"

Ashe's brow knit in confusion. "Balthier, you _did_ help her. She could have died. Thanks to you, she'll live."

But Balthier was already striding away, caught up in his own personal web of bewilderment.


	4. Chapter 4

Penelo's fever raged furiously for days. Aryne had taken her leave soon after the cauterization, instructing their party to keep the fever cooled, reassuring them that Penelo was young and strong, and she would recover given time and care. She left with them a sack of herbs to be boiled in water, which would produce a tea known for its curative properties.

Balthier spent more than his fair share of time on nursemaid duty, ministering to Penelo in the shade of the tent they'd constructed around her, to the bemusement of most everyone, but moreso himself. He told himself that he felt a responsibility to her, to the rest of the party to play his part for the success of their mission. He told himself that he was merely protecting his own interests by ensuring her survival, that they couldn't afford to lose what little support they had. He told himself that her youth made him protective of her. He told himself he had seen far too much death already. He told himself that she were to die, it couldn't be here, in a tiny camp at the edge of the Phon Coast, but in a blaze of glory with the rest of them in the liberation of Dalmasca. He told himself he'd merely grown weary of not caring, that he was entertaining himself with his current benevolence. But though he could effortlessly lie to others, it wasn't nearly so simple to lie to himself.

 _Responsibility_ did not explain away the way his gut clenched when she thrashed and whimpered, held fast in the clutches of her nightmarish fever dreams. Nor did it explain his curiously assiduous efforts to alleviate her discomfort, his constant attention to soothing her heated flesh with cool, wet cloths, his dedication to trickling thin broth or the prescribed tea down her throat in her calm moments.

In rare moments, when the tea and cool cloths eased the fever, she was very nearly lucid. But even if she could hold a cup steady enough to drink from herself, always her eyes were fever-bright, searching but not seeing. She spoke to people not present in frantic, childish whispers. She spoke of fire and death, her breath hitching in terror. She trembled, shook, and then, as if her limbs had grown too heavy to move, collapsed, still as death. Each episode took years off Balthier's life, each time he had to listen for her weak, thready breaths, he paid for sins he'd not yet committed.

On the third day, Ashe ducked into the tent, a bundle of cloth tucked under her arm.

"One of the women in the camp is a seamstress," she said. "We've traded some of our goods for a set of new clothes for Penelo. They'll be a sight better than the ones that had to be cut off, I suppose. She's been in a child's garb for too long; she's long since outgrown the style." She wrinkled her nose delicately. "Though I suppose it was due to necessity rather than any fondness for them. The cost of proper materials can be so dear, and altering clothing is much less expensive than purchasing new."

"What do you mean, she's outgrown a child's clothes? She's still a child." Balthier's blank look startled a laugh out of Ashe.

"She's not a child, Balthier. Goodness, I was _married_ at her age. She's almost eighteen. That suit she wears, they usually don't make them for anyone over the age of twelve. She must've let the seams out to save money on clothing. But then, she's so small that it probably wasn't so difficult to alter them. Girls are into more adult clothing by eleven or twelve in Dalmasca. Is Archades so different, then?" Ashe settled gracefully onto the ground, curling her legs beneath her, and reaching for a cup of water to heat over the fire to prepare the tea.

"I don't entirely recall. I remember my younger sister in frothy white dresses, practically drowning in ruffles and lace. I can't say I can ever recall her wearing such serviceable garments as Penelo. Though I suppose it might be different, considering the class differences. The upper echelon of Archades rarely mingles with the lower," he explained.

"Somehow, Balthier," Ashe said, "I cannot imagine you with a younger sister." Her lips quirked, as if the mere thought conjured amusement.

"She died," he replied abruptly. "Years ago."

Ashe's humor faded as though it had never been. "I'm so sorry," she said quietly.

He waved away her sympathy. "Really, you ought to be grateful to her," he said lightly. "Sarema's death was the catalyst that forced me to break from Archades. I wouldn't be here were she still alive."

Ashe considered this for a moment, stirring the tea and straining the leaves out of it. "I wonder, Balthier, how much of what you present is real?"

A rueful smile touched his face. "I've wondered the same thing. I've been Balthier for so long, I no longer remember who I once was. I suppose you must understand that, having been someone else yourself."

She shook her head slowly. "No. I took the name Amalia for the protection it provided, but I was always myself. I always want to remember the things that brought me to where I am. I used the pain of loss to forge myself into a stronger person, but not a different one. Inside, I'm still that girl who had such love for her husband that she wept over his coffin for days until they pried her away, who helplessly watched her father die, who saw her kingdom burn. All of those things are part of me. To deny them would be a kind of death."

"Then it is fortunate that the boy I was died long ago," he said deliberate carelessness, "and can never be revived. I don't have it in me to forge myself in the fires of adversity, as you did. I lost the part of me that cared about anything years ago."

Ashe studied him in silence for a moment, observed the way his hands wrung out a cloth, folded it neatly, and drew it over Penelo's forehead with exquisite tenderness. She watched as his long, elegant fingers smoothed Penelo's hair from her face, taking care not to pull at the tangled mass of it. She lowered her eyes, feeling as though she'd somehow blundered in on an intimate moment.

"I think perhaps you are wrong," she said softly. "I think that boy has only been hiding, lying in wait for the opportunity to care again. Waiting for someone worth caring for."

Balthier reared back as if she'd struck out at him. For once, the mask of indifference slipped, and Ashe caught a glimpse of the man beneath. A man suspicious and wary, hiding his pain beneath the veneer of recklessness and detachment. But the moment passed, and the mask slid back in place, and he appeared as cool and remote as ever.

"There is nothing worth caring for in this world." His tone was laced with disdain. But he did not meet her eyes.

\--

Penelo awoke long after dark, disoriented. Her mouth was dry; her hair was a mess of tangles and dirt. Her leg ached, a slow, burning throb that made her wince. She was wrapped in blankets that had clearly seen better days, and she felt as though she'd undergone a beating. She was sore all over, muscles protesting as she sat up.

Her mind called up vague memories of searing pain, of soft, soothing whispers in the dark, of pleading entreaties to grow well again, of broth and bitter tea dripped down her throat, of blessed coolness stroking her heated limbs. Of a strong, warm hand clutching hers, anchoring her to the world of the living when all she had wanted was to slide into the all-encompassing darkness.

She shook her head to clear it, but it only brought a wave of dizziness. She pressed her hand to her forehead, but her fingers caught and pulled in her knotted hair. Her stomach clenched; hunger clawed at her. But that would wait - what she truly needed now was to be _clean_. She felt grimy all over, coated in the sweat and dirt of she didn't know how many days.

In the dim light of the fire outside the makeshift tent, from her limited vantage point, she could make out Basch's boots, and just the tips of Fran's ears. A deep, rhythmic snore told her that Vaan was also accounted for without. She tugged the blanket close around her shoulders, looking about the tent for her bag, but instead she found Ashe, curled up in a corner upon her bedroll, and Balthier, sprawled out on his back behind her, a cloth clutched in his fist.

His own bedroll was nowhere to be seen, and nothing separated him from the hard ground. He looked as though he'd collapsed from exhaustion, right in the middle of a task. A small bowl was resting on the ground beside him, filled with water, and comprehension dawned - the cloth in his hand and the bowl of water; he'd been using them to keep her cool. How long had she been ill, that he'd succumbed to exhaustion like this?

Quietly, so as not to disturb him or Ashe, she shifted to her knees and poked her head out of the tent. As she'd thought, Basch, Fran, and Vaan were sleeping around the campfire. They'd set up camp only thirty feet or so from the edge of the hunter's camp - close enough that they could summon help if needed, but far enough to afford a little privacy. The dying light of their small fire was supplanted by the light of the much larger fire at the heart of the hunter's camp. Penelo shuffled out of the tent, pulling herself up to stand. She was steadier on her legs than she'd expected, but still weak.

Still, she summoned her strength and walked the short distance to the hunter's camp, where a lone woman sat beside the fire. The woman looked up as Penelo approached, but it took Penelo a moment to recognize her.

"You're the healer," she said. "You cauterized me."

The woman opened her mouth, probably to defend her actions that night.

"You probably saved my life," Penelo said. "Thank you."

The woman's mouth snapped shut. Then a wry grin crossed her face. She stood to face Penelo. "I _definitely_ saved your life," she said. She accepted the hand Penelo extended through the blanket. "I'm Aryne. I don't think you were conscious to hear it the first time. It's wonderful to see you up and about; your color's much better."

"Thank you," Penelo replied. "But I still feel terrible. And filthy. And hungry. But mostly filthy. Is there anywhere nearby where I can bathe?"

"Oh. Oh! Yes, absolutely. I'm so sorry; you've been feverish for days, I'm sure you'd welcome a bath. There's a small hotspring not far from here; it's fed from an underground source, and the water is always pleasant and warm. Here, let me get you some soap, it's the least I can do."

Aryne hurried off and returned a few moments later with a bar of soap that smelled of lavender, a comb, and a clean towel. She carried the items with her, leading Penelo off into the darkness towards the spring. The light from the fire died out as they walked through a copse of trees, and they emerged into a small clearing. A pool of water was centered therein, steam rising off in great waves, visible in the clear light of the moon. Aryne set the toiletries down near the edge of the water.

"Most of the camp dwellers bathe here from time to time, but I'll see to it that you're not disturbed by any of us. I'm sure a little privacy would be welcome," she said. "It's shallow; the water should only come to your waist at its deepest, so you needn't fear drowning. I'll stop by your camp in the morning to retrieve my things; don't worry about returning them tonight."

Penelo thanked her, and Aryne faded into the darkness, leaving her to bathe in peace. She tested the temperature with her toes and found it just a shade above warm. With a sigh, she cast off the tattered blanket and her underthings, and slipped into the water. The heat soaked into her abused muscles, releasing tension and soothing the soreness. She collected the soap and comb, wading deeper into the spring to set them upon a smooth rock that jutted up from the center of the pool. The water here was warmer, and she sunk down to her knees to let the warmth wash over her shoulders.

The air was calm and still, the moon giving the only light. Penelo drifted, closing her eyes, soaking in the quiet peacefulness of the hotspring.

\--

Balthier reached out in his sleep to stroke Penelo's hair, but his fingers connected only with the abandoned bedroll. He jerked upright, his heart in his throat, panic clawing at his gut. Gone! He scrambled out of the tent and to his feet, startling a woman standing near the fire. The healer, Aryne.

"She's just at the hot spring. She awoke about an hour ago, wanting a bath," she said, her voice low to avoid disturbing the others. "You may want to, um..." she coughed delicately, "bring her some clothing. She had only a blanket when I spoke to her."

"She's well?" His voice was oddly hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. "She's recovered?"

Aryne shrugged. "She seemed well enough. She may suffer weakness for a few days, in the aftereffects of the fever. But she's awake and alert." She hesitated. "No doubt she wanted some privacy, but given her recent condition, I think perhaps she should not be left alone for too long. Perhaps one of the women..."

"I will see to her," Balthier said. He ducked back into the tent too quickly to see the flare of amusement in Aryne's eyes. He rooted around in the darkness, finally finding the bundle of clothing Ashe had procured earlier. He tucked it beneath his arm and emerged from the tent once again.

"It's just there, past those trees," Aryne said, gesturing in the direction of the spring. "She's safe enough; no beasts venture this close to the camp."

He stalked off with a curt nod of acknowledgement in the direction Aryne had indicated, at once relieved that Penelo was at last revived and furious that she had gone off alone, again. The obnoxious chit was clearly too reckless for her own good. She needed a keeper or she'd get herself killed. A muscle ticked in his jaw as his ire grew. Foolish child couldn't even be bothered to wake anyone to tell them before she'd rushed off once more into the night.

A splashing sound reached him through the trees, alerting him to the spring's proximity, and he stepped into the clearing, prepared to launch into a furious tirade, but the words died before he could speak them.

Steam rolled off the spring, catching the moonlight in the mist, casting a foggy aura around the spring. And Penelo stood in the water, her back to him, carefully pulling a comb through her wet hair. Moonlight gilded her skin, droplets of water shining like a mantle of stars against her silken shoulders. She looked like a mermaid, a siren, a creature of exquisite sensuality, created solely to lure unwitting men to their doom. Unconsciously seductive, innocently enticing. She was...dangerous.

Her hair, unbound, reached nearly to her waist. His fingers itched to run through it again - clean, it would be soft, fine, silky, and free of the tangles that had taken up residence in her fevered days. Her narrow waist flared gently into generous hips, a lovely figure that had been camouflaged by her unflattering child's garments.

He could have alerted her to his presence, but the wicked streak in him would not be denied. Instead, he silently took a seat at the egde of the pool, observing. He couldn't even summon a modicum of guilt for his voyeurism - instead he experienced the excitement of a child who had ripped the wrapping paper off of a gift, discovering the untold wonders beneath.

She hummed a few bars of a wistful-sounding song, rubbing a bar of soap between her hands to work up a lather, and Balthier shifted uncomfortably as she stroked her soapy hands along her limbs. The filmy bubbles clung and slid, accentuating curves. His hands curled, as if in anticipation of touching her, learning the shape of her body. She lifted handfuls of water, sluicing it down her body to wash away the last of the soap, sighing in delight. The sweet sound sent a shiver down his spine. She collected the bar of soap and comb, turned, and stopped abruptly, her eyes lighting on him. For a moment she stood, staring blankly, as if uncomprehending. Then she gave a tiny cry of dismay, jerked her arms over her breasts, and overbalanced herself, toppling backwards into the water.

He suppressed a snicker - barely - as she resurfaced, sputtering. This time, she knelt on the smooth stone floor of the pool, the water nearly reaching her shoulders. She pushed her hair out of her face, glaring at him.

"What are you _doing_ here?" she demanded.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Taking in the sights. You know better than to go out alone; you should have taken Fran or Ashe with you. As you did not, you are stuck with me." He propped his chin in his hand. "By all means, do continue."

Her eyes narrowed. "I'm finished, thanks. If you could hand me the towel..." She pointed a few feet away from Balthier, where a folded length of fabric lay.

He stood, retrieved it, held it out.

She coughed delicately into her hand, a scarlet flush creeping slowly over her cheeks. "If you would look away for a few moments?"

He gave a long-suffering sigh, but averted his eyes. A few seconds of splashing, then the towel was snatched out of his hand. He waited patiently, until she finally announced, "Okay, I'm decent again."

Decent was a matter of opinion, he thought. The towel covered her, but just barely. He wasn't sure how much more of that he would be able to withstand. So he grabbed the clothes he'd brought and thrust them at her.

"Wear these," he said. "Ashe procured them for you; replacements for the clothing that we had to cut off of you."

"Oh." Penelo took the bundle of cloth, carefully unfolding it. "Ohhh. These are...too nice. Nicer than anything I've ever owned." Her voice trembled a bit, sounding suspiciously like she might cry.

Balthier cleared his throat. "I shall leave you to dress, then. If you haven't returned to camp in ten minutes, however, I _will_ come looking for you."

"No." She thrust her hand out imperiously. "I don't trust you _not_ to spy on me. Stand there, where I can see you, and turn your back. I won't have you lurking in the woods, doing gods know what." Her nose tilted at an impudent angle, she fixed him with her best attempt at a commanding look. It failed; with her wet hair clinging to her and a droplet of water threatening to drip off the tip of her nose, she looked too much like a mischevious water nymph to incite anything other than mirth.

Nonetheless, he turned his back. A wet plop heralded the towel dropping to the ground, and he barely resisted the nigh-overwhelming urge to turn around. Fabric rustled, and his mind conjured up tempting images of soft fabric sliding over softer skin. He gritted his teeth.

"Um, Balthier?" A tentative call from behind him. "I can't get the ties...could you...?"

He turned and caught his breath. He hadn't examined the clothes that Ashe had purchased, and of course he was familiar with current fashions, but he had never imagined Penelo in anything other than her typical concealing clothing, and therein lay his mistake. The billowy crimson pants hung low on her hips, exposing the enchanting dip at the small of her back. The silvery top, if it could be called that, given how little fabric the garment contained, ended just below her breasts, and tied in two places, at the back of her neck, and across her back. She'd managed the one at her neck, but hadn't managed to get the other. One hand held the fabric secure across her breasts, and the other held her wet hair over her shoulder.

He didn't want to do it. It would almost certainly necessitate touching her, and he didn't want to do it. Rather, he wanted to do it altogether too much, and that simply would not do. But he was already walking towards her, his body moving of its own accord, hands reaching for the ties. His knuckles brushed the flesh of her back, and she shivered involuntarily. And so did he.

Gritting his teeth, he tied the strings together as hastily as possible, needing to put some distance between them before he did something he would regret. He needed to go back, to return to the time when he'd been able to dismiss her as a child.

But she stepped away, thanking him for his assistance, bending to retrieve her things, and he got a clear view straight down her cleavage and bit back a curse. The dip of her navel tantalized, the exposed skin of her midriff invited stroking, her top which was held up by only flimsy bits of string provoked delightful, terrifying thoughts of how easily she could be divested of it.

The veil had lifted. Penelo the child was gone, replaced by someone infinitely more dangerous.


	5. Chapter 5

Penelo darted a sidelong glance at Balthier, who strode along beside her on the way back to camp. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, but his mouth was set in a firm line, too serious to be concentrating on something so simple as the quick trip back. He seemed almost...annoyed. Maybe even offended. And that pricked her temper, as she certainly hadn't been the one spying on _him_ in the bath. And really, she'd been remarkably calm and polite, considering his rude intrusion and merciless teasing thereafter. But then, he wasn't particularly threatening - he was just a shameless flirt, mostly harmless. Probably he simply couldn't resist the chance to poke fun at her. Which, really, was sort of a cruel thing to do.

"I don't need a babysitter," she groused. "I was perfectly safe. The water wasn't deep; it's not like I was in any danger of drowning."

His head jerked toward her, expression incredulous. "You had been unconscious for _three days_ , and delirious much of the time. And then you have the unmitigated gall to go rushing off into the night for a _bath_?" A muscle ticked in his jaw, eyes narrowed, staring her down with a piercing gaze. "I swear I've never met anyone so prone to mishaps as you, so if it takes constant supervision to keep you from getting your fool self killed, then so be it."

She stopped abruptly, eyebrows inching toward her hairline in disbelief. "Were you...were you actually _worried_ about me?"

"We were _all_ worried!" he shouted, and she flinched at the sudden anger in his tone. Abashed, she scuffed her toes in the grass, feeling uncomfortably like a chastened child.

"We've all taken our turns playing nursemaid, doing our damnedest to keep you alive against incredible odds, and _you_ keep rushing right back into potential danger with not a single care for your own wellbeing or our considerable efforts to safeguard it!" He made a disgusted sound in his throat, raking his hands through his hair in frustration. "Have you even a single ounce of good sense in that pretty little head of yours?"

She winced. "Balthier, I didn't think...I...I'm sorry."

"Are you, then?" he scoffed. "Then don't let it happen again. Your recklessness jeopardizes all of us. Gods, a _child_ has a better sense of self-preservation!"

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. "I said I was sorry!" she snapped. "You don't have to keep yelling at me!" His censure shamed her, ignited her anger. " _I_ should be the one yelling at _you_!"

He had the temerity to look affronted. "What have _I_ done to you, then?"

"You _spied_ on me, you lecherous -" She broke off on a gasp as he moved swiftly toward her, bringing himself uncomfortably close. She backed away, and he followed until her back hit the trunk of the tree, trapping her.

"Why all this indignation _now_ , then?" His voice had gone muted, husky. "Why not rail at me _then_?"

She swallowed heavily, pressing herself back against the tree trunk. Her fingers plucked nervously at the bark. "You didn't...you didn't really mean anything by it..." she stammered.

His lips quirked into a sly smile. And though his eyes flickered with amusement, a banked fire glowed behind them, unsettling her. Slowly, deliberately, he plucked a lock of wet hair from her shoulder, twining it around his finger. He bent close, until she closed her eyes and turned her face away, shying from his intensity. But the heat emanating from his body burned her nonetheless. His breath stirred the hair at her ear and she shivered, and knew he had noticed the helpless reaction by his sharp intake of breath.

"Didn't I?" he murmured at her ear. "Hmmm."

He released her hair, and she knew he had stepped away by the cool air that rushed in to replace his heat. When she opened her eyes, he was a few feet away, his cool gaze observing her with complete disinterest.

"Come. It's late." His voice had a commanding snap, and Penelo pried herself off the tree trunk, trailing along behind him like a puppy after its master, nursing her bruised pride. Maybe he wasn't _quite_ as harmless as she'd lead herself to believe.

\--

"Have you and Balthier quarreled?" Ashe asked, handing Penelo a bowl of some sort of gruel.

Penelo shrugged. "He had a thing or two to say, I guess." She stirred the slop in the bowl, grimacing as it stuck to the spoon, pulling in long, stringy threads of goo. Unappetizing, to say the very least.

"Well, he said it loudly enough to rouse the lot of us," Ashe responded, taking a seat. "Do eat. I know it isn't terribly appealing, but going from broth and tea directly to rich foods would probably be too much for your stomach to accomodate."

Penelo heaved a sigh, took a hesitant bite. The consistency was terrible, but at least the flavor was palatable. "He didn't have to _shout_ at me," she muttered.

"If he hadn't, one of us would have," Ashe returned lightly. She set a hand on Penelo's shoulder. "You really ought not to have gone off alone."

"I know that, now," Penelo murmured. "No one's worried about me in such a long time. It really just didn't occur to me that anyone would, now." She hesitated. "I'm grateful for all you've done for me. I'm sorry it seemed like I didn't appreciate it." She looked down into her bowl, blinking furiously to hold off the tears that threatened.

Ashe nudged the younger girl with her shoulder. "You've done much for us as well," she said. "More than should ever have been expected of you. But you're not on your own anymore. Just remember that, won't you?"

Penelo nodded, then ducked her head and averted her eyes as Balthier appeared and tossed some wood in the fire, poking the embers with a stick to stoke it. He shot a thin-lipped, narrow-eyed look at Penelo, and Ashe tsked.

"Honestly," she huffed. "A grown man, sulking."

That earned her a glare all her own, and he dropped the stick with a muffled curse, stalking off furiously into the darkness.

" _He's_ allowed to go off on his own, I see," Penelo said petulantly. She tipped her head back, sighed heavily.

"Yes, well, _he's_ not recovering from a rather serious illness. And he's only gone to join Basch and Fran at the hunter's camp." Ashe took Penelo's empty bowl, replacing it with a cup of the bitter tea. Penelo pulled a face, but drank it anyway.

"We've decided to stay here a few more days. It will give you time to rest and recover. In the meantime, this area seems to be plagued with beasts that the residents will pay handsomely to be rid of. Accepting some jobs will give us an opportunity to gain a bit more capital, which we'll no doubt have need of eventually," Ashe said, casting a regretful look at Penelo. "I'm afraid that you must remain here. Until you are fully recovered, you'll be more of a liability than an asset on the battlefield."

"It's okay; I understand." Penelo managed a weak smile. "I can make myself useful here. Cook or something, maybe. Wash clothes. We've all gone too long in without clean clothing as it is."

"You can make yourself useful by _resting_ ," Ashe admonished lightly. "Don't strain yourself."

"Really, there's only so long I can sit idle; I have to make myself useful somehow. I promise I won't overdo it," Penelo said. She smothered a yawn, finding her energy suddenly depleted to the point of exhaustion. Perhaps a few restful days would do her some good after all.

"I shall hold you to that, then." Ashe rose, gently prying Penelo's empty cup from her hands. "Now, go to sleep. And if I find you've jeopardized your recovery further, I shall give you a lecture that will make Balthier's seem like a cozy chat."

\--

The day was well advanced by the time Penelo awoke. A cool breeze blew in from the sea, tempering the heat of the summer sun. The wind carried with it a crisp, salty scent that Penelo found rather refreshing. The rest of her party had likely been gone for several hours already, and would likely not return for several more, but Penelo had never been much good at sitting idle. Years of being more or less on her own had cured her of any propensity towards laziness she might once have had.

She scavenged clothing from bags, clothing that had long since surpassed merely 'dirty' and had been worn straight on through 'filthy.' They had had little enough time along their journey to stop and wash themselves, much less to look after their clothing, but hopefully it wouldn't prove to be too insurmountable a task for one afternoon.

The clothing wrapped into a neat bundle, she made the quick trip through the copse of trees to the hot spring, laying the items out. The heated spring water proved effective in soaking out sweat and dirt, though some of their garmets would always wear the proof of their hardships in the form of grass stains. But at least the washing managed to remove the offensive smells, and though the whites would no longer be quite so pristine, at least they could, at last, be called clean once again.

She laid the freshly-laundered clothing out on the smooth, flat rocks near the bank, hoping the sunlight would hold until the clothing was fully dried, then took the opportunity to change the bandage on her leg. To he relief, the wound was healing well enough. The flesh had scabbed over, and though it was tender to the touch, it was no longer inflamed. The skin was knitting; the infection well and truly vanquished.

She spread salve over the scab, carefully rewrapping the wound. At least Balthier wouldn't be able to accuse her of negligence in this respect. Why was he so willing to think the worst of her? She sighed. It didn't matter. They'd part ways soon enough - either as champions of Dalmasca's freedom, or in death.

\--

Night had fallen when the party finally returned, guided back to camp by the glowing firelight, the succulent scent of roasting cockatrice wafting out to meet them as they approached. Penelo sat near the campfire, bent low over a swath of fabric in her lap, sewing. She lifted the fabric, tearing through a thread with her teeth to finish off a seam. Her hands worked diligently to fold the garment with a clothier's precision.

"How utterly domestic."

Her head jerked around at the scathing tones, lips pursing into a moue of distaste as her gaze fell on Balthier. Ashe threw him a caustic look.

"Dinner's ready," Penelo said, choosing not to dignify Balthier's sarcasm with a response. "Did you bring down any marks?"

"We did indeed," Fran replied. "Two of them, in fact. The rewards from these ought to replenish our coffers and supply us with improved armor."

"You have been busy as well, I see," Ashe said. "You haven't overexerted yourself, I hope?"

Penelo shook her head. "I picked up a few things from the hunter's camp, but I didn't go any further than the hot spring. Really, I just did some laundry and cooking; nothing particularly strenuous." She busied herself with sorting the clothing into piles as the others cut slices of steaming meat off the spit and settled down to eat.

"I think I should be ready to travel by tomorrow," Penelo said. "The day after at the very latest. We've delayed too long already."

Vaan spoke around a mouthful of meat. "You're only just now recovering. We can wait."

"I have bandages and salve. The wound is still a bit sore, but if we wait until it's fully healed, we'll be here for weeks. There's no danger of reopening the wound, and as long as I keep it covered and protected, it'll continue to heal." Penelo gathered up the spool of thread, tucking in the loose end, and shoving the needle through to keep it in place.

"Yes, well, we've all seen how well you take care of yourself," Balthier snapped. "So do forgive us for being reluctant to continue on merely on your word that you'll do so."

"Balthier." Fran's voice was a sharp as Penelo had ever heard it, but she paid it no heed. Blood rushed in her ears; anger brought heat to her cheeks. Her hands clenched into fists around handfuls of snowy white linen. She threw the garment, flooded with satisfaction as it smacked Balthier clear in the face. Anger spent, she drew a deep breath.

"I mended your shirt," she said, voice low and even. "But now I'm beginning to wonder why I bothered." She turned without another word, retreating to the tent.

Balthier set the shirt aside, returning to his meal with an air of indifference. Silence reigned over the campsite for a few seconds, until Basch cleared his throat.

"That was poorly done of you, if you ask me," he said.

"Then it is rather a good thing that I did not ask," Balthier returned acidly.

"Don't be asinine," Ashe shot back. "Why must you antagonize that poor girl? She's done nothing to you. She tries ever only to be helpful, and yet you continue to throw her kindness back in her face."

"She ought not be here at all," Balthier retorted. "This is war. Someone so young has no place here. She's already come close to losing her life."

Vaan stared at Balthier, mystified. "She's two months older than me," he offered. "I didn't hear you complaining when we were bagging those marks today."

"She's fragile. She's more than proved that, I think. She'd be safer back in the city."

Vaan choked on a laugh. "Where, in Rabanastre? Archades?" He hooted with genuine mirth. "It's not like we grew up in the lap of luxury, you know. We eat better out here than we did in Rabanastre half the time. No offense," he said, noting Ashe's pained expression. "It's just that the war cost us our families. We take the odd job to bring in some money, but we sleep in Lowtown, in the alleyways, with the rest of the street children. We've got no control over our fate in Rabanastre. We survive on charity."

Fran studied Balthier intently. "You, too, once wished to challenge fate, Balthier. Have you forgotten already the lessons you have learned?"

Balthier subsided into silence, subdued and brooding. The fire crackled, the sound dominating the stillness of the night.

\--

Penelo rose early to change out her bandage by the hot spring and refill the canteens. The restfulness of the previous day had certainly revitalized her, and she hoped that the rest of the party would be amenable to continuing their journey. Already she itched to travel; she'd been stuck in one place for far too long.

When she returned to the camp some time later, she found the lone straggler, Balthier, and stopped short.

"They've gone to replenish supplies," he said. "We'll be moving on when they return, so I would suggest you pack up your things." His tone conveyed a measure of disapproval, but at least no overt hostility.

Discomfited, she began to gather her own things, shoving them into her knapsack. A heavy sigh from behind her had her glancing over her shoulder. Balthier stood, fingers pressed to his forehead, rubbing away lines of concern. She watched as he dug in his bag, withdrawing a folded sheet of paper and presenting it to her.

She didn't move. "What is it?"

"A peace offering," he said, voice deliberately bland, "take it."

Warily she reached out and snagged it, carefully unfolding it. Lines and dots were scrawled across the page in unrecognizable patterns. She stared at it, uncomprehending.

"A star chart," he said by way of explanation. "They can be used for navigation. Every explorer ought to have one."

"Thank you," she managed. Her throat burned, eyes watered. She'd had gifts before, though not in a long while. But this one...this one was special. She was used to being looked at but not seen; heard but not understood. But Balthier had done both. And somehow his consideration hurt worse than the lash of his anger. His indifference would be easier to bear than his affection, given the fact that would inevitably part ways.

He cleared his throat. "I'd suggest you pack it away. We leave forthwith for Balfonheim."


	6. Chapter 6

In her haste to complete her packing and prepare to leave in time with the rest of the party, Penelo had eschewed her typical plaits and opted for the relative ease and speed of arrangement that only a simple ponytail could provide. Unfortunately, her fine, fair hair, without its customary braids, was...distracting, at least to Balthier. Freed from the weightiness of the plaits, it bounced up into natural waves, floating in an intricate dance as the winds rushing across the plains swept it into motion, only to desert it so that it settled, at last, with mesmerizing swaying, over the bare small of her back.

No longer a prisoner of the heat in her child's garb, Penelo blossomed instead of wilting. Though they were all coated in sweat from the arduous trek towards their next location, only Penelo glowed. No, more than glowed...she sparkled. As if lit from within, she radiated joy and pleasure, her rapt gaze darting about in search of whatever new wonders each new exotic locale might hold, as if afraid that if she so much as blinked, she might miss something. She put him in mind of a caged bird that had slipped its confines, and now beat its wings furiously in haste to at last soar free amidst the endless blue sky. And once again, in the way that only she could, she made Balthier look upon the landscape with new eyes. A previously unencountered creature would amble across the worn path, and he could feel more than hear her delighted gasp and gentle, feathery exhalation, see her slowly-widening blue eyes, soft and bright with discovery.

And he wondered how long it had been since he had been so guileless, so completely devoid of artifice and pretensions, for he could not recall a time he had taken so much pleasure in such ordinary occurrences. But her unguarded reactions polished every landscape to blinding brightness, crumbled his world-weary cynicism into raw wonder.

The air was clean and fresh here, the chatter of birds in the trees an ethereal chorus, the cheerful melodies urging them ever onward. The tall grasses rippled in waves under an onslaught of wind, tender green stalks flecked through with the burnished gold of advancing summer shimmering in the sunlight. Once again he saw the beauty in the wild, untamed land, heard the call of adventure, felt the pull of excitement and promise of glory reeling him in. And he knew - knew - that she felt it as well, that Penelo, too, possessed an adventurer's heart.

The grassy plains sloped gently downward, vast, rolling hills sliding down into the port city of Balfonheim. He could not yet hear the roar of the ocean, but he could smell it in the air, the salty taste of the sea breeze lingering on his tongue, in his throat, with each breath. And he noted, too, that Penelo also relished it, tilting her face to the sun and she took a deep, cleansing breath. Another gust of wind whipped her loose hair into his face, stinging, and the spell was broken.

"Oh! I'm sorry." Her delicate fingers gently tugged away the offending strands, pulling her hair down over her shoulder, smoothing it away from her face. Even, white teeth worried her lower lip, wispy flyaway strands of blonde hair fluttered against her wind-flushed cheeks.

"No harm done," he muttered. But the wind molded the lightweight fabric of her pants to her legs with a carelessly intimate caress, and his gaze lingered for a fraction of a second too long before he managed to jerk it away.

He turned away too quickly, felt a seam in his shirt pull and hold, and recalled that it had been mended since last he had worn it. The practiced stitchery had rendered the garment wearable again, the fabric cleansed of all manner of offensive odors and stains. But it felt different - the linen, usually pressed to stiffness by either starch or the collected salt from the sea breeze, now felt smooth and buttery soft. How had she managed that?

"I suppose I ought to thank you," he said. "For mending and laundering my shirt. I can't imagine how you managed to do it; by all rights it should have dried stiff as a plank of wood."

She ducked her head, embarrassed, giving a half-hearted shrug. "It's best to pound the salt out with a rock. It's the same with sand. I used to help my mother do the washing, when my brothers would come home from the Westersands covered in sand and worse; it's really the only way I know to get it out."

He considered that. "It must've taken quite some time."

Another shrug. "I had it in spades. I don't care for sitting idle."

He had noticed. For weeks she had kept up with their blistering pace across Ivalice during the days, and then spent a significant portion of their nights setting up camp, gathering supplies, cooking dinner, and generally looking after the rest of their party. He wasn't so sure anyone else had truly noticed, for she generally affected the mien of a good servant - always quiet and in the background, anticipating needs and fulfilling them before they were voiced. Her actions gained no acknowledgment because she performed them not out of desire for praise but out of necessity. She received no thanks because the tasks had been performed before anyone had noticed they required attention. The face she presented to everyone else was not who she truly was but who they needed her to be. Her true self was given leave to emerge only when she was alone and there was therefore no need to fulfill anyone else's expectations.

He thought it was possible, likely, even, that he might've been the only one who had gotten a glimpse of the real Penelo - when she'd spoken so longingly of the stars, when he'd observed her without her knowledge at the hot spring, the night he'd stitched her wounds.

"I think perhaps you've not been idle long enough to know whether or not you might enjoy it," he remarked.

"It doesn't matter," she said, shading her eyes against the afternoon sun. "It's a luxury I can't afford, and what good would growing used to it do for me? I can't miss something I've never had." She skirted around a boulder, and he noticed she was favoring her wounded leg. Just a bit, not so much that any of the others would have noticed, but he had been looking for it, waiting for it.

"You might as well start growing accustomed to it," he said, striving to keep his tone light lest he provoke her into another argument. He caught her shoulder and hauled her back, pushing her down to sit upon a long, low outcropping in the boulder and holding her there. "You'll be experiencing it directly. Basch!"

Basch and Ashe were some distance ahead already, but they came loping back, catching up with Vaan and Fran along the way.

"Penelo requires rest. We ought to stop here for the night," Balthier said. "Isn't that so, Penelo?" He fixed her with a stare so intense that she flushed guiltily, silently daring her to dissent.

"Yes, I...I do need to rest. I'm sorry; I was going to ask for a break soon, really." She plucked self-consciously at the soft fabric of her pants, eyes downcast.

"A wise decision," Balthier said approvingly. "We're safe enough here. If we leave at first light, we ought to make Balfonheim by late afternoon tomorrow."

"But it's so _close_!" Vaan protested. "I can see it from here!"

"Forced perspective," Basch said as he dropped his bag, rooting through it for a flint and steel. "The hills run right down into it, and the angle makes it seem much closer than it truly is. Late afternoon is perhaps too ambitious. At our current pace, it could take a few hours longer."

Beneath his hand, Balthier felt Penelo squirm uncomfortably. Though Basch had not meant the statement as a judgment of any fashion, she could not help but to take it that way. After all, their pace _had_ slowed considerably in deference to Penelo's more limited capabilities.

"Let me at least take care of dinner," she offered, struggling to shrug off Balthier's hand to rise.

"No," Ashe smiled reassuringly. "Fran and I shall take charge of that task. You may, however, tend the fire and brew yourself some tea." She dangled the pouch of herbs before Penelo, who accepted them with a look of distaste.

"I'm really starting to hate this tea," Penelo muttered.

"Nevertheless, you'll drink it," Ashe insisted. "Balthier will see that you do." She waved a hand imperiously, every inch a princess expecting her wishes to be fulfilled, but the mischief in her eyes bespoke some nebulous scheming nonsense that pricked at Balthier's temper. He bared his teeth in an insolent travesty of a smile, a message that she would find him a worthy opponent should her unknown machinations involve him.

"Of course," he agreed, his amiable tone at odds with his mutinous expression. "I should like nothing better."

\--

The stillness of the night was broken by a crinkling of paper, and Balthier looked up from the small, leather-bound book he'd been reading. He could not see clearly across the camp, but somehow he knew who the culprit was, and what she was doing.

"Put it away, Penelo," he said in a low voice. "We've much ground to cover tomorrow. Rest while you are able."

Penelo shifted towards him on her bedroll, patently ignoring his request, struggling to decipher the star chart held in her hands. She alternated between squinting at the markings in the dim firelight and peering up at the sky. "I can't read this," she sighed. "How can anyone make out all these dots and lines?"

Balthier stifled a groan - would the willful child never do as she was instructed? Nonetheless, he resigned himself to indulging her curiosity, as he'd surely find no peace until he did. Snapping the book closed and setting it down beside him, he held out his hand. "Bring it here," he commanded.

She wrestled herself free of the confines of her bedroll, tiptoeing silently across the camp, and dropping down beside him to hand over the chart. She folded her legs beneath her, leaning over so that she could see it more clearly in his hands.

"These lines connect the stars into clusters called constellations." He gestured to the map, pointing out a small group of five stars. "You see, this group here is called _Eritenya's Compass_. The cluster is evenly spaced, which makes it one of the easiest constellations to locate." He pointed to the east, and Penelo easily located the cluster, twinkling brightly in the velvety blackness of the night sky.

"If you can find _Eritenya's Compass_ , you ought to be able to locate some of the other constellations that surround it," Balthier said. He slid the map over to her, tapping a finger to the chart. "Find this one."

Penelo traced the outline of the constellation on the sheet of paper, then searched the sky. In relation to _Eritenya's Compass_ , it was due west, or at least so claimed the star chart. But she found it easily, and pointed it out to Balthier with a pleased little laugh.

"Good. That one is called _The Judgment of Canteras_ ," Balthier said. "Do you see how the stars form a scythe?" He traced them for her, and indeed, they did resemble a scythe sweeping down as if in mid-swing. "It's named for an old legend in which an ancient king, Canteras, was executed by his people for his tyranny. He kept them poor and heavily taxed so he could fund his own indulgences, and thus was denied an honorable death at the point of a sword instead to be executed with the only tool at his people's disposal - a farm worker's scythe. A grisly end to a mockery of a king."

Wide-eyed, Penelo inquired, "Is that _true_?"

Balthier shrugged. "Who can say? Any evidence of his existence has been lost to time, and we are left with only a cluster of stars in the sky and a legend. But then, all legends contain within them fragments of truth."

Penelo brushed her fingers reverently over the chart, the closest she would likely ever get to reaching the stars. "Will you write the names down for me? I don't want to forget them."

"Better not," he said. "The names are intentionally left blank by chart makers, as each kingdom has its own legends. I know only Archades' names for the stars; you may wish to fill in Dalmasca's yourself, instead."

She shook her head. "I never knew them. Not much use in learning the names when you can't see them beyond the city lights." She tipped her head back, examining the sky with eyes that contained a new and fascinating knowledge. "Thank you for the star chart," she said. "It was kind of you. Assuming we make it through this alive, I'm going to learn everything there is to know about the stars. I'm going to follow them all over Ivalice, to the ends of the earth."

An amused chuckle. "Best to pick just one to start out with, lest you be drawn in too many directions at once."

She smiled, shrugged her understanding. "Fine, then. That one." She pointed to a star at the center of a new constellation on the chart, then searched it out on the western horizon. "That one right there. That's the one I'm going to follow. What's it called?"

He stilled, the lips that had been curled in indulgent amusement just moments ago flattening out into a firm line. "Pick another. That one will not guide you anywhere you wish to go."

She cocked her head to one side, studying him curiously. Something had changed in him in a space of seconds, and she wanted desperately to discover what it was. She shook her head. "No. I've decided already. I just want to know what it's called, Balthier."

"You really ought to just pick a different -"

"Just tell me the name," she said. "I can be awfully tenacious when I want to be. I'll pry it out of you one way or another."

He made an irritated sound in the back of his throat, averting his gaze. " _The Pirate Balthier_ ," he said peevishly.

She barely suppressed a giggle, coughing to disguise the laughter that rose in her throat. "You took your name from the stars?"

"Why would you think I appropriated the name? Perhaps I was named for them," he said lightly.

She shook her head. "No, I think not. I can tell when you're lying."

He arched a brow. "I highly doubt that," he drawled in disbelief. "I'm rather an accomplished liar."

An artful shrug. "Be that as it may, growing up in the low places that I have, I've had more experience with liars and unsavory characters than I'd care to admit. There are always those willing to take advantage of a girl on her own. For my own safety, I learned to listen for lies. You may be a good liar, but I'm a better listener, and Balthier is _not_ your given name."

He regarded her shrewdly, as though trying to ascertain the veracity of her speech. His eyes narrowed. "Tomas," he said.

"Lie." She wrinkled her nose as if she could smell it.

"Drasen." Still his eyes observed her steadily.

"Lie." An airy, silvery laugh, her eyes glinting with mirth, reflecting the glimmering stars above them.

"Ffamran."

Her mirth died by degrees, the smile slowly fading as she turned to face him. She settled her chin in her palm, her brow furrowing in confusion...and interest. "Truth," she said softly.

Balthier surged to his feet. "It's nearly Fran's watch," he said in clipped tones dripping with scorn, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt, studiously avoiding Penelo's curious gaze. "Wake her in twenty minutes. I'll be gone a while."

"Balthier, what are you afraid of? It's not a crime to tell the truth. It's not a weakness to show your true self."

His jaw clenched, his eyes burning with anger. "I fear nothing," he said brusquely. "I simply don't care to have an irritating little street urchin with no manners or sense of which to speak prying into my life. Don't mistake me for a friend, Penelo. You, all of you, are merely a means to an end. Nothing more."

Penelo sighed as she watched him stalk away into the darkness. Then she turned her eyes to the western sky, raising her hand to trace the outline of Balthier's constellation with her fingers.

"Lie," she sighed wistfully. But the word was swallowed up into the all-encompassing silence.


	7. Chapter 7

Midway through the day, the sunlight had faded behind the clouds, darkening the sky to a dismal grey. Though the roiling clouds on the horizon warned of an oncoming storm, the mist and fog in the air were a blessed respite from the heat of the day. The moisture painted the grasslands with glistening water droplets and saturated any absorbent material available, which meant that Penelo's clothing was heavy with it. But she slogged ahead anyway, that much more determined to make Balfonheim before the sky opened up and released the torrential rain that threatened.

Balthier had been hanging well back, conversing quietly with Fran for some time. Penelo supposed that he'd revealed more to her than he'd wished to and was now regretting testing her. Nonetheless, she could afford to be generous - she'd let him have his petulant sulk if that was what he desired, much as she hadn't protested his little midnight jaunt last night. She'd been asleep by the time he'd returned, and she was willing to bet that he'd planned it that way.

"You doing okay?" Vaan asked from her right. "Basch thinks we'll make Balfonheim within the hour. Getting hard to tell, though, through all this fog."

"I'm fine," Penelo said. And she was, thus far. The moisture that had soaked her pants through was acting like a cold compress of sorts, and felt rather soothing against her wound. "I can't even see the city lights through all this anymore, and we're walking right into the heart of the storm, it looks like. I hope Basch knows where he's going."

"I'm sure he does. After all, he said this slope runs right into the city, so as long as we follow it, we should end up there." He shifted his bag on his shoulders and dragged his shoes to scrape off the mud that clung to them. "We're gonna get rooms at an inn when we get there."

Penelo darted him an uncertain glance. "Will that be safe? We _are_ trying to keep a low profile."

Vaan shrugged. "I wondered, too, but then Ashe started talking about _real_ rooms with _real_ beds. Basch thinks it'd be better not to, but he says the city's large enough that he doesn't think anyone'll take much notice of us as long as we keep to ourselves. And it'd be a difficult night, trying to camp out in the storm, anyway. No way to build a fire."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." She considered the low-hanging clouds, heavy with precipitation. "We'd probably mildew. Or drown. Or both. So, I guess...it'll be nice, to have a real bed for a night."

"We got enough gil from those marks to rent rooms for a month; we might as well get some use out of it. After all, it's not that much further to Archades." He pushed his hair out of his face, frowning as though it had only just occurred to him that their destination might truly be their final one - and that unspent gil could be gil wasted.

She injected a cheerful tone into her words to draw him from his sudden dark mood. "Well. We'll live it up a little tonight, won't we?"

And just as the muted coronas of the city lights in the distance broke through the fog, the heavens opened and released an onslaught of icy rain.

\--

The inn was small, but at least it was clean and dry. On the outskirts of Balfonheim, it was the best place to stop - out of the way, down a rarely-used lane, and containing only eight rooms to let. Established by an elderly widow seeking to eke out a living after the death of her husband, it was the perfect place to spend the night - quiet, secluded, and far away from the bustle of the city streets.

Though they'd arrived wet and bedraggled, the proprietress had eagerly ushered them inside and shown them to their rooms, assuring them that she would send her serving girl up with a light supper and bath water as soon as it could be heated, which, she regretfully informed them, might take some time.

Basch passed around room keys, instructed them to meet on the morrow in the common room downstairs, and they'd all dutifully dispersed to their rooms. Penelo's room was at the far end of the corridor on the second floor; a small but cheerfully-decorated room, with a thick, downy coverlet spread over the narrow bed, and a fire already burning in the hearth. A fluffy white towel was draped across the footboard of the bed, and she wrapped it around her shoulders and sat down before the fire, not wanting to be caught undressed when the servant brought up dinner.

The glow of the fire brought the feeling back into her toes, which had been numbed by the cold for so long that even the pinpricks of returning sensation was a relief. The wind outside rattled the shutters of the window, so loud that when the knock came, heralding the arrival of dinner, it was a struggle to hear it over the racket.

Penelo unlatched the door, allowing the little maid to shuffle inside, weighted down by a tray laden with covered dishes. She sat one such dish, and a small, steaming mug at the small table near the window, and sketched a curtsy before bustling out the door, on her way to deliver the rest of the food. The scent of roasted meat caught Penelo's attention, and she lifted the silver cover on the tray, revealing a thick slice of roast beef covered in gravy and mushrooms, as well as a generous portion of vegetables and a crust of steaming white bread slathered with butter. The mug contained hot apple cider, thick with cinnamon and nutmeg. It had been a very long time since she'd had such a meal. For that matter, it had been an even longer time since she'd had a whole room to herself. The silence was equal parts welcome and heady as it was foreign and unnerving.

Alone in the room, with no one to judge her table manners, she sat down at the table and broke into the bread to sop up the rich gravy, taking bites that were far too large, but enjoying the warming heaviness of the meal. For once, it felt like she was consuming a meal that would stick with her, sustain her for more than an hour or so. The rain had lessened somewhat, coming down in a soothing patter rather than a beating flood, and the darkened sky had been in stuck in the twilight phase for hours. Halos of light wreathed the streetlamps, and she gazed blankly out the window, chewing absently, until light flooded the dimly-lit alleyway, and a lone figure emerged from the door beneath her window.

She rubbed at the condensation that fogged the glass to clear it, and froze, the mug of cider halfway to her lips. Balthier. _Of course_ it was Balthier; it was _always_ Balthier. She watched, enthralled, peering through the window as his retreating figure passed. He paused under the nearest streetlamp and rubbed the back of his neck, as though he could feel her eyes on him. He turned about abruptly, staring up at the lighted windows of the inn. Penelo jerked away, scooting back in her chair to remove herself from his line of sight. But she caught herself - she'd done nothing wrong - after all, it was hardly a crime to look out of a window. So why had his searching gaze made her feel like she'd been watching something she oughtn't to have been?

She chewed thoughtfully for a moment, absently brushing the crumbs of crusty bread from her shirt. Balthier clearly had business about town, or he'd not have left the inn. And he hadn't taken anyone with him, that much was certain - so he was about something that he didn't want anyone to know about. She tried to tell herself that she was piqued only because he was so fond of going off alone when he'd railed at her for the same action, but really, she was just...curious.

So she carefully replaced the silver cover on the dish, hung the towel over one of the bed posts, and opened her door slowly, so as not to make a sound that might alert the others of her journey, but she needn't have bothered. Though the door was heavy, its hinges were well-oiled, and it slid open smoothly and without so much as a tiny betraying squeak. After a quick peek down the hall to make sure no one was lingering nearby, she stepped lightly down the stairs, and ducked out the front door, keeping to the shadows in case anyone else happened to glance out of their own window.

The alley was long and narrow, and she followed the path Balthier had taken, which dead-ended into a wider, well-lit thoroughfare. In the wake of the storm, only a few people were out and about, and none of them paid any attention to her. Some distance ahead, she caught a glimpse of Balthier just as he rounded a corner. She quickened her pace, trailing him through the city, keeping just far enough behind to avoid drawing his attention. They had gone off the main thoroughfare once more, and Balthier was wending his way down side streets, for which Penelo was thankful, because it was far easier to stick to the shadows on streets with fewer streetlamps.

Balthier turned another corner, and Penelo scurried after him. But as she peered around the corner to see when she could safely follow, she felt a hand clamp around her wrist.

"Oi, love. What're you doin' in this part o' town?"

The rough voice sent a shiver down her spine. She'd heard many like it before, from the Archadian soldiers in Rabanastre, leaving taverns, their cruelty, so tightly leashed during their service hours, loosed and exposed after too many drinks. Predatory with their groping hands and lecherous smirks. She'd had far too many close calls before, and already she was considering ways to escape her present predicament.

The hand encircling her wrist was large and meaty, attached to a thick arm covered in dark hair. She followed it up to her captor's face, leering down at her with that familiar, toothy grin - perhaps lacking too many teeth to truly be called 'toothy.' True to type, he looked the sort of man that had gotten in - and won - many a bar fight. His broad, unshaven cheeks had the drunkard's flush she knew only too well. She'd be no match for him in a fair fight, of course. This sort of brute was used to overpowering with brute force, and the scars that lined his hands spoke all too clearly of his willingness - no, _eagerness_ \- to resolve disputes with violence.

But Penelo had never been a fair fighter. Smaller, physically weaker, and without weapons in Rabanastre, she'd had to rely on wits and cunning. This man was stronger than she was, but she was willing to bet she was a good deal smarter than he.

"I have business here," she said carefully. "I'll thank you to leave me to it." She tugged at her hand, giving him the opportunity to end the confrontation before it began. But he merely tightened his grip, his stupid, broad grin widening to a ridiculous degree.

"Looked to me like you was followin' that swell," he said. "No need to go runnin' off now, we was just gettin' acquainted."

"No, we weren't." She looked the man dead in his beady little eyes, her chin tipped upwards stubbornly, a message that she was not afraid of him, uncowed by his menacing air.

Unaccustomed to being refused, to having his brutish authority challenged by his chosen victims, the wide grin slid into a threatening scowl.

" _I_ say we was," he growled. His grip tightened painfully, but Penelo didn't so much as flinch. "And if you know what's good fer you, you'll come along nice-like."

He jerked on her arm, and Penelo allowed herself to be pulled closer. Thinking he'd scared her into submission, the hateful grin emerged again. He took a step closer, reaching out with his free hand. But Penelo caught it and used his momentum to propel him closer, jerking her knee up, hard, right into his groin.

With a sharp cry, he bent double, releasing Penelo to clutch at his injured privates. Hands now freed, Penelo grabbed the back of his head, shoving it down as she again lifted her knee, smashing his face into it. She heard the crack of bones and his pitiful whimper. As she released him, he sunk to the ground, face down, moaning in pain. She neatly sidestepped, planted one dainty foot on his back, and grabbed his arm, twisting it painfully behind him. Rage and pain made him struggle, but he ceased when he realized that any further movements he made would wrench his arm from his socket.

"You bloody bitch," he howled, "you've broke my nose!"

Penelo shrugged. "You should have listened," she said. "You're lucky that's all I broke."

"You'll get yours," the words were a gutteral growl, imbued with all the hatred the bested bully could muster. "You'll have to let me up sometime. I'll get you. I will."

Penelo gave a painful jerk on his arm, and he yelped in agony. "I could still slice you from gullet to gut," she snarled savagely. "Don't tempt me."

A metallic click, the sound of gun being cocked, caught both Penelo and her attacker's attention. She jerked her head to the right, and froze. Balthier stood, leaning back against the wall, enshrouded by shadows, observing the exchange silently. His gun he held in one hand, trained straight at the man Penelo held fast to the ground.

"Oi, mate," the man called, "this bitch attacked me. Get her offa me, would ya? She was followin' you, I was doin' you a favor and all, keepin' her away." He was too stupid to realize that the mask of indifference Balthier wore like armor disguised his utter contempt for him. But Penelo sensed it, felt the raw fury rolling off of him in waves, and shuddered, because Balthier was unpredictable at the best of times.

Balthier shoved himself off the wall, loping casually across the deserted street, dropping to crouch beside the trapped man. He considered his weapon for a moment, then pressed it to the man's temple.

"This girl," he said, his voice a dangerous purr that prickled the hair on the back of Penelo's neck, "is under my protection." He increased the pressure of the weapon, watching as the man's beady little eyes widened in abject terror. "I believe you owe her an apology."

"S-sorry!" the man gasped. "I didn't know she was with you, mate. Hand to gods, I didn't. Never woulda touched her if I knew!"

"Apologize to _her_ ," Balthier said, affecting a bored expression.

"Cor! What for, then?" The confusion in the man's voice scraped across Penelo's raw nerves. But Penelo was not the only one who'd been angered by it, for Balthier again cruelly jabbed the man with his weapon. And Penelo no longer believed he was merely threatening the man, because the expression on his face bespoke not only his willingness to shoot him, but how very much he would _enjoy_ doing so.

"Balthier, don't -"

He shot her a quelling glance. She subsided into silence immediately, and knew, simply from that look, that she, too, would be getting a lecture all her own.

"You've accosted an unwilling girl. And as much as I would prefer to put you down like the rabid animal you are, I believe the lady would prefer it if I were to offer you a second chance. _Not_ ," he said harshly, "that _I_ believe you deserve one. But blood is so very difficult to remove from one's clothing, you know. So apologize to the lady for forcing your unwanted attentions on her. And you had better make _me_ believe it, or I'll simply have to buy a new shirt."

Finally sensing the seriousness of the predicament, the man dissolved into blubbering apologies, swearing he would never so much as look at another woman with ill intent again. After a long moment's silence, considering the veracity of the man's claims, Balthier finally tucked his weapon back into its holster and rose. He offered his hand to Penelo, who took it with her free one, stepping away from the man as she released her hold on his arm. Finally free of the painful hold, the man scrambled to his feet and backed away from them, fleeing as fast as he could into the darkness.

Penelo tried to shake her hand free, but Balthier held it fast, the iron strength of his fingers manacling hers. Without so much as a glance at her, he began striding away, dragging her along in his wake, keeping to the dimly lit alleyways. She followed him silently for a few minutes, before the desire to attempt to soothe his dark temper won out.

"Balthier -"

"Not a word, Penelo." His icy tone was biting, dark and dangerous.

She tried again. "But -"

" _Penelo. Shut. Up._ "

"I only wanted -"

He stopped abruptly, shoving her back against a wall, pinning her there with his hands and his livid gaze.

"Will you _never_ simply do as instructed?" he hissed furiously. "For the gods' sake, you can't go more than a few days without getting into trouble, can you? What the hell were you thinking, following me, alone in a strange city? Oh, yes, I knew you were there, you bloody idiot. I could _feel_ you watching me. And then to get yourself tangled up with that great buffoon, all because you were too busy sneaking after me to pay attention -"

"I had it well in hand!" she snapped back. "I've handled his like before!"

And really, that was the core of Balthier's rage - that she had clearly been cornered by men like that frequently enough to know how to handle them, that she had not actually needed him to rescue her, that she had had reason to learn to defend herself because she had lacked for protection. That he had realized she had no longer been following him and had searched her out only to discover that she had already taken care of the problem. That, had anything gone wrong, he might not have discovered her soon enough to save her. That the mere thought of such a happenstance had jerked his heart into his throat, made his fists clench with rage and his stomach clench with fear. That just now he had wanted to kill a man, desperately wanted to plug a bullet into his brain, simply because he had had the audacity to lay a hand on Penelo.

The stubborn tilt of her chin incensed him, made blood pound in his head. She was now as furious as he was, and, perversely, it made him want to laugh. But instead, he hauled her up against the wall, lifting her, pinning her against it with the length of his body, and she gasped, clutching at his shoulders as her feet were no longer firmly planted on the ground.

She seemed to sense his intent, blue eyes thickly fringed with black lashes going wide, then half-shuttered. Her pink lips formed a little 'o' of surprise, then her teeth worried at her lower lip nervously. His right hand grabbed her leg, lifting it to wrap around his waist, and her other leg followed suit. Her elbows were locked, holding him at a distance.

"I could scream."

A harsh chuckle. "You won't." His left hand buried itself in the silky softness of her hair, tugging her head back, arching her neck. Her arms trembled, then sagged, the token resistance faded as if it had never been.

As he touched his lips to her throat, she jerked in his arms as though he'd seared her skin. She smelled like rain, and he felt her pulse jump and flutter wildly beneath his searching mouth. Her fingers curled, nails scraping across the fabric of his shirt, digging into his shoulders, but the pressure was good, right. She should be clinging to him. Perhaps he had started this in anger, in the heat of rage and fear, but he found himself unwilling to betray the fragile trust she had placed in him by being rough with her. Instead, he traced the line of her jaw, circled the delicate shell of her ear, listened to her ragged breathing.

Her eyes were closed, sooty lashes fanning flushed cheeks. His hand withdrew from her hair, cupped her cheek, tilted her face upwards. He bent again, lips brushing hers, a gentle, teasing caress. Her lips parted, breath escaping on a sigh, and he pressed his advantage, fitting his lips over hers. The fingers that had clutched at his shoulders went lax, lifted, wrapped around him. He made an approving sound in his throat as he felt one arm encircle his neck, the other hand sift through the hair at the nape of his neck, nails raking through it gently.

She didn't know how to kiss, probably she'd dropped anyone who'd ever tried as efficiently as she'd felled her attacker earlier in the evening. But she was an apt student, mimicking his actions, meeting the first forays of his tongue with curiosity rather than reticence, indicating her own approval with a sigh, or an indrawn breath, or tiny shudders that sent tingles down his own spine. She tasted sweet, clean and fresh, and she threw herself so headlong into the kiss that his head spun with the heady sensations she aroused.

She drew back only when he pressed closer, letting her feel his body's reaction. She broke away, gasping, her eyes once again wide and wary, and he mourned the loss of the innocent passion she had so generously bestowed upon him.

Slowly he released her, setting her gently on her feet, perversely pleased that she clung a moment, as though she needed the time to steady the trembling of her legs.

"You could have had me on the ground just as easily as you did that poor bastard earlier," he said.

"Yes," she said, still shaken.

"Then why didn't you?"

"I...I don't know." She backed away a step, feeling awkward and uncertain.

He made a rough sound in his throat, dragging his fingers through his hair. "Next time, I think you'd better."


	8. Chapter 8

The tension was so thick between them that Penelo felt that had she had tried to violate the respectable distance Balthier kept between them as they walked back to the inn, she might've been bounced off like a ball against a wall. It appeared to be only empty air, but it might as well have been three feet of solid steel.

She hadn't managed to banish the scarlet flush from her cheeks for more than a few seconds at a time, because every time she glanced over at Balthier it came raging back. What had possessed her? For that matter, what had possessed _him_? By the firm set of his jaw, and by the way he studiously avoided so much as a stray glance in her direction, she was fairly certain he was wondering much the same thing.

"What were you doing in town?" She asked, but her voice managed to tremble over the words, high and unsteady. Again the flush rolled back in full force.

He did not look at her, and it was several seconds before he deigned to answer, during which time Penelo had once again drawn back into the relative safety of silence.

"Posting a letter," he said finally, and his voice was bored, bland, disinterested. Penelo envied him his composure.

As she had never had occasion to either mail or receive any letters, somehow it had never occurred to her that he might have someone with which he wished to correspond. And that he would choose to do so now, when it was of utmost importance that they keep their movements and location a secret, utterly baffled her.

"A letter? To whom? A...friend of yours?" This time her voice did not quaver, and she inwardly congratulated herself.

"Sky pirates do not have _friends_ ," he said, hissing the word as if it were a curse.

"That's ridiculous," she chided, as they crossed into the side street on which their inn was located. "Even if you don't count us among them, Fran is your friend."

"Fran is my companion," he replied easily. "My partner. It suits our purposes to travel together, and I trust her with my life. But I have no need for friends. I don't care for people insinuating themselves into my life. I prefer to remain free of complications and intimate relationships." He eased the door of the inn open silently, lowering his voice so as to not be overheard. "In the future, do remember that."

Then he was gone, leaving her at the foot of the stairs, before she could muster the courage to call him out on the lie.

And it wasn't until later, when she was sinking into the steaming bathwater that had been delivered up to her room that she realized he had neatly evaded her questions, and to whom he had written was still very much a mystery.

\--

Through the wall separating their rooms, Balthier had heard the maid knocking on Penelo's door, had heard buckets of water splash noisily into the copper washtub, repeating the procedure she'd performed for Balthier only ten minutes prior. Next she would direct Penelo behind the privacy screen that surrounded the tub so that Penelo could hand over her clothing for cleaning and drying.

He imagined Penelo stripping off her wet clothing, stepping into the tub, sinking down into the heated water, her skin pinkening, her fair hair darkening to liquid gold. He imagined her sighing, stretching her legs over the edge of the tub, wispy curls of steam rising around her, limbs lax as the heat soaked into her muscles. He imagined the water lapping over soft curves, filmy soap bubbles lovingly clinging and turning silky skin slick and slippery. He imagined himself stroking back her sodden hair, fingers lingering caressingly at the nape of her neck, massaging away the tension that lingered. He imagined her, languid and relaxing into his soothing hands. In this fantasy, she had been waiting for him, expecting him. She arched her back, pressing into his touch, welcoming the sensation of his hands on her. In this fantasy, they were silent, as if they had been lovers for a long, long time, and words were no longer necessary between them. As if meaning could be conveyed entirely through the brush of his fingertips across her cheek, the tilting of her head as she exposed more of her skin for his exploration. As if their communion surpassed physical intimacy and approached the spiritual.

 _No._ Somehow his imagination had gotten the better of him. He did not want that. He had never wanted that. Moreover, he could never have that, even _did_ he so desire it. Which he absolutely did not. At all. With anyone.

He sloshed water over his face, attempting to banish the sensuous images that arose behind his closed eyes. When that failed, he opened his eyes, surveying the room in a futile attempt to forget them, to replace the forbidden and exciting with the mundane and ordinary, rubbing the scented soap between his hands and scrubbing them furiously through his hair. In his carelessness, the foamy lather slipped down his forehead, into his eyes, stinging. He cursed, splashed his face again, rinsed his hair, scowled. Sniffed. Bloody lavender. What self-respecting pirate wanted to go around smelling of a blasted flower garden?

But Penelo had likely gotten soap of the same scent, and it would suit her, delicate and floral. Something at once earthy and ethereal. In the world, but not of it, as if existing on a higher plane, flirting only rarely with the lower world occupied by mere mortals. She was a walking, breathing contradiction. So simple in her goals, so complex in her motives. She fascinated because he could not read her, could not place her neatly into this category or that, because she so readily defied categorization, because her desires were so pure and simple, because she appeared so delicate and fragile, but ran the gamut between selfless and ruthless. Because she always meted out kindness when it was due and justice when it was necessary. Because she was vicious when cornered, but forgiving of slights against her. Because she saw the best of what he might have been, and somehow did not find him lacking despite what he had instead become.

That was why he had kissed her, he realized. Not because she was convenient, or even because she was pretty. It was because of her easy acceptance of all that he was along with all he was not and could never be. It was because she had no interest in changing him, no plan to mould him into her own creation, no scheme to trim away his faults or sand off his rough edges.

Even Fran had shaped him, tethered him, tamed him, tempered his all-encompassing rage into cool detachment. Fran had saved him from himself, but she had also, as if he were a seedling, metaphorically tied him to stakes, training him in the direction she wished him to grow, pruning away the bits she deemed unnecessary. Penelo existed not to whittle away the unwanted pieces, to mask the ugliness, but to complement, to fill the empty spaces, lending her grace and gentility in generous counterbalance.

She was inquisitive; she did not do it to aggravate, he knew, but to understand. If he had told her he had written to his father, he knew there would be no judgment. And if he had confessed the sins of his past, the sins he planned still to commit, she would sit silently and listen. Just listen. But it was enough that he judged himself and found himself wanting. He would not burden her with his past. He could not provide her with yet another tie to bind him. Already he chomped at the bit, already she held more ties than she knew. And for both of their sakes, he needed to keep it that way.

\--

Penelo had not slept well. She supposed years of sleeping on makeshift pallets in Lowtown with the other street children had ruined her for a genteel life. The silence had been deafening, she had sunk into the plush mattress to the point of immobility and felt suffocated by the thick, downy coverlet. And she had been plagued by dreams that did not bear thinking of in the cold light of day. Dreams that made her squirm and flush in remembrance, that had jolted her awake, breathless and sweating, shocked at their indecency.

She had finally given up the futile undertaking of sleep at dawn, risen to splash her flushed face with water, and found her clothing neatly folded and waiting for her. The maid must've already made her morning rounds, because the fire was freshly stoked and a light breakfast of flaky pastries, jam, and tea was waiting for her at the table.

She lingered in the room a while, managing a few bites of her breakfast, certain that she would be the only one up so early, as surely the rest of them would be making the most of what might be their last night spent in such luxurious accomodations. Their goal loomed closer, and they were soon to enter enemy territory, which necessitated the utmost discretion. No taverns or inns from here on out would be considered safe enough to pass the night within.

At last the sun had risen up over the roofs of neighboring buildings, and Penelo knew it would soon be time to meet the others downstairs. She gathered up the last of her belongings and shoved them into her bag, taking one last longing look at the room as she opened the door. She regretted that she had been unable to fully enjoy her brief stay.

The door next to hers opened and Balthier stepped out into the hallway just as she did. At once, and to her indescribable embarrassment, her face flooded with color. She froze, unprepared to face him.

His face revealed nothing; he regarded her with disinterest, as if they had only a passing acquaintance. Her embarrassment gave way to shame, then self-loathing. She was an idiot to let their previous encounter weigh on her as it did; a fool to be so affected by it, because he clearly had not been. He had probably had scores of women throw themselves at him, and if she were wise, she would not be counted among them. To infer meaning into what had passed between them would be a very grave mistake.

She rallied, collected the tatters of her pride, her high color fading, straightening her shoulders resolutely. She looked him in the eye, gave a brief, dismissive nod, and turned her back on him to head down the stairs.

Balthier was both amused and impressed. Her face had shown a riot of emotions, for in her youth she did not yet understand the value of concealing one's thoughts, but she had grown up a bit in a scant few seconds, composed herself before his very eyes, and regained her former confidence. Now he need not fear that the truth would reveal itself on her face, nor risk censure from the rest of their party. Provided she could maintain her nonchalant facade, no one would be the wiser.

As he watched her retreat steadily down the stairs, he arched a brow and murmured, " _Bravo_ , dear girl."

\--

In the downstairs common room, Penelo found Ashe and Basch already waiting. Ashe sipped tea with a careless grace that Penelo was certain she could never have managed, and Basch stood guard near the door, ensuring their privacy. Penelo took a seat on the plush sofa near the window. Balthier appeared moments later, and this time she neither blushed nor faltered at the sight of him. She turned her attention to the window instead, giving the illusion of being interested in the local scenery.

Fran entered moments later; Vaan brought up the rear, as Penelo had expected, looking displeased. Penelo surmised that Fran had likely had something to do with getting Vaan, who had never been an early riser, out of bed and downstairs in a fairly timely manner.

Basch stuck his head out into the hall, and, satisfied that no one lurked nearby, closed the door and latched it. He spoke in low tones, and the rest of the party took their cue from him.

"We're going via the Aerodrome," he said.

"Has two years in that dungeon addled your wits?" Balthier said incredulously. "We want to remain _inconspicuous_."

"And we will," said Ashe, placidly, setting down her tea cup. She folded her hands in her lap. "We shall travel in pairs so as not to draw unnecessary attention to ourselves. We might attract suspicion should we travel as a group, but not if we split ourselves into smaller groups. So many people pass through the Aerodrome every day, I suspect we will be highly unmemorable. Furthermore, no one will expect us to travel by airship. It will cut down our journey significantly, and give us the element of surprise. The sooner we make Archades, the less prepared Vayne shall be."

Fran indicated her approval with a nod. "There is merit to such a coup," she acknowledged. "Better to strike unexpected before the enemy can rally their defenses."

"Never been on an airship before," Vaan put in. "Sounds like it'll be fun."

Penelo had never been on one either, but she couldn't rightly say she was looking forward to it. She had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if some information was being withheld, a vague sense of unease that she could not shake.

"Well," Basch said, addressing Balthier. "Will we find your face gracing a Wanted poster in the Aerodrome? Currently, your notoriety is our biggest risk, as the princess is still widely thought to be dead."

Balthier sighed, pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "No," he said finally. "I am not infamous in Balfonheim. Nor will my presence present a problem in Archades, due to...certain circumstances." He did not elaborate. Nor did Basch press for an answer, but the two men stared one another down, posturing silently for supremacy, authority.

Ashe rose, dissolving the crackling air of discord by clearing her throat gently. "If we are all in agreement, I suggest we set out at once. We will take separate flights, at half hour intervals, and reconvene in Archades. Balthier, as you are familiar with Archades, would you please suggest a meeting place?"

Balthier hesitated briefly. Finally he said, "Draklor Laboratory." Ashe's eyebrows rose in silent inquiry. Tightly, he continued, "We will have business there, I assure you." He stalked over to a desk in the corner of the room, rifled through a few drawers and withdrew paper, pen, and ink. He spent a moment, drawing a hasty map of the city and the path from the Aerodrome to Draklor Laboratory, then handed it over to Basch.

"It is accurate to the best of my memory," Balthier said. "It has been many years since I was last in Archades."

Basch studied the map for a moment, then passed it off to Ashe, who briefly examined it, then retired to the desk to sit and copy it. Basch withdrew a pouch from his traveling bag and counted several gold coins into his palm before passing the gil over to Balthier.

"That should pay for your travel and food along the way," he said.

Balthier slung his own bag over his shoulder. "Fran, let's be off," he said.

"No," Ashe said. She rose, tapping the edges of the sheaf of papers against the desk to straighten them into a neat pile. "You cannot travel with Fran; the two of you are too well known together. I will not be traveling with Basch for the same reason." She pursed her lips, as if considering the problem. But Balthier's stomach clenched and he knew that she had already decided; she was merely enjoying the thought of him squirming like a worm on a hook. He waited for the death knell, the felling blow. And it came, cheerful and decisive.

"You'll take Penelo."


	9. Chapter 9

Balthier had not argued with Ashe's decision only because to do so would rouse suspicion, and it did not suit his purposes to have anyone question him. He counted himself lucky that Penelo herself had not raised any objections of her own, but then she was generally inclined to go along and not make waves, and perhaps she, too, wished to avoid the interrogation that would surely follow should she refuse.

Thus she walked briskly beside him, silent and pensive. The Aerodrome loomed in the distance, massive passenger ships soaring into view behind, eclipsing the dull red brick of the building. The cobblestone streets blended into an elegant stonework thoroughfare; no expense had been spared in the creation of the Aerodrome, which had put Balfonheim on the map and firmly cemented it as one of the largest metropolitan regions in all of Ivalice.

He stopped briefly, pulling Penelo out of the flow of foot traffic and off to the side of the street. He jerked a brightly colored ring from one of the fingers of his left hand, and held out his hand to her. She stared blankly, perplexed.

"Give me your hand," he said impatiently. "We haven't got all day. The left, if you please."

She hesitated a moment, then set her hand gently in his, timidly, as though she might snatch it away should he grab at her. Her fingers were soft and cool, the pale delicacy of them exaggerated by the largeness of his own. He shoved the ring onto her finger - it slid on easily, overlarge for her, and she had to curl her fingers to keep it from falling off.

"What's this for?" she asked.

"Our cover." He resumed walking, and she hurried to catch up to him, his long-legged strides forcing her to near-jog just to keep pace with him. She sensed his discomfiture, knew he had not wanted to be stuck with her - just as she had not wanted to be stuck with him. She could not know, however, that his present pique was due not to being forced into accompanying her, but rather to having given his ring over to her. She could not know that it had felt, to him, uncomfortably like a promise, a pledge.

As they entered the Aerodrome, Penelo marvelled at the crowd, the flurry of activity, the steady streams of people lining up for their flights, collecting their luggage, hurrying on their way. Then she realized that she was gawking like a child and focused her attention on following Balthier, because at least he seemed to know where he was going.

They approached the counter, behind which stood a rosy-cheeked woman, and Balthier said, "Two to Archades."

She dimpled at them, her eyes shining with delight. "Ahhh," she said knowingly. "Newlyweds."

Nothing in the world could have kept Penelo from blushing furiously at that, and she opened her mouth to correct the woman. But before she could, Balthier's arm had slid around her waist, pulling her tight up against his side.

"That's right," he said. "First time on an airship for you, isn't it, darling?" He linked their hands, holding Penelo's - with his ring on it - up for the attendant to see.

"Yes," Penelo squeaked. His ruse had become clear, but surely he could see that she had no idea how a newly married woman was expected to behave?

"She's a bit nervous," Balthier said to the woman conspiratorially. "Taking her home to meet my family for the first time." He could imagine what they looked like to the woman - the dashing man, his sweet, blushing bride. She must be spinning romantic stories in her head of how he'd swept Penelo off her feet, carried her off and married her before she could catch her breath, spiriting her away to a foreign land, some sort of variation on carrying her off into the sunset.

"Congratulations," the woman said, handing over their tickets. "I've arranged for a bottle of champagne to be sent up to your cabin. Complementary, of course."

"You're too kind," he gave the attendant a smile that sent her into a vivid blush, raised Penelo's hand to his lips to press a kiss to her knuckles, looking every inch the adoring husband. "Come, darling, we mustn't miss our flight." He was at least satisfied that Penelo's look of shock would probably be mistaken for the aftereffects of a whirlwind courtship.

When they had gotten far enough from the kiosk, Penelo shook her hand free and again put a respectable distance between them.

"Cabin? What did she mean, our cabin?"

"The flight to Archades is long. A journey of roughly eighteen hours." His tone was as bland and informative as he had hoped. "While the ship will have a leisure deck - restaurants, shops, bars, and such - due to the duration of the passage, each travelling group is assigned a cabin, in which they might pass the time more comfortably in sleep."

A strange little shudder slid down her spine. "A cabin. _A_ cabin," she stressed more clearly. "Just the one?"

"Correct."

"I guess it would be too much to hope for two beds?"

He heard the tremor in her voice, the tiny thread of hope to which she clung tenaciously, and her own reticence to subject herself to his company pricked his temper enough to ruthlessly squash that last bit of hope.

He seized her hand, threading his fingers through hers in a vise-like grip. "Don't be ridiculous, darling. We are supposed to be newlyweds, after all." Her hand was cold and clammy; she walked beside him mechanically, as if her body moved of its own accord rather than under her instruction.

"Why did you tell her that?" The pressure of his fingers pressed hers tightly together and his ring bit into the fingers on either side. She did not complain of it, because somehow she knew he would not release her hand anyway, not when he had a charade to maintain.

"Why else might we be traveling together? You're not young enough to be my daughter. She'd never have believed us as siblings. Giving her a romantic story to attach to us will negate suspicion. And none will question why we remain in the cabin rather than to mingle with the other passengers."

She jerked as if she'd been struck. "We have to _stay_ in the cabin?"

"While the likelihood of encountering anyone who knows either of us is slim, it is nonetheless present, and it would be best were we to avoid unnecessary socializing. Now, smile, dear girl. Put on a show for the stewardess." He handed over their tickets to the woman waiting to receive them, relieved to see that Penelo had managed a decent approximation of a blissful expression, and if her sunny smile did not reach her eyes, the stewardess did not notice. Balthier gallantly tucked Penelo's frozen hand into the crook of his elbow and she sidled closer, clinging to him, looking up at him in a passable imitation of adoration.

Penelo let Balthier lead the way, darting furtive glances about as they crossed through the gate, up a ramp and onto the ship itself. The stewardess walked ahead of them, pointing out directions to various restaurants and shops as they passed, indicating which elevators could be used to access which decks. Finally she stopped before a door, inserted a key into the lock, and pushed it open.

"Here we are," she said, handing the key to Balthier. "Please enjoy the flight. We'll be departing shortly." And she was off to escort another party to their rooms.

"After you," Balthier said, somewhat snidely, for he had not missed how quickly Penelo had sprung away from him as soon as the attendant was out of sight, as though he might have the plague.

She inched into the room, relieved to find not _just_ a bed, but a small sitting area which possessed a low table, two chairs, and a plush sofa. A silver bucket containing a bottle of champagne sat upon the table, alongside two glasses, two sets of silverware rolled in cloth napkins, and a platter of what looked to be an assortment of fruits and cheeses.

The door closed with a snap behind her. She heard the snick of the lock engaging, and watched as Balthier crossed the room, lifting the chilled bottle of champagne from its container. He wrapped one of the napkins around the cork and gently eased it from the bottle with a muffled pop, then carefully filled both of the glasses.

One he held out to Penelo, who took it reluctantly, staring curiously at the fizzing liquid in her glass.

"What, have you never had champagne before?" he asked, and then wished he could take back the thoughtless words, because of course she hadn't. What opportunity would she have had for it, after all?

But she either chose to ignore the fainting chiding tone or did not notice it, because she merely said absently, "No," and continued watching the tiny bubbles rise to the surface of her glass.

He took a seat in one chair, and gestured to the other. "Might as well sit and enjoy it. You've earned it. An admirable performance." He tipped his glass towards her in salute, and took a drink from his glass. Of Archadian origin, it was sweet and mild, crisp, with fruity undertones. He decided she would like it.

She sank into the chair opposite him, turned the glass this way and that, and took a hesitant sip. Her face changed, eyebrows winging up in surprise.

"Oh. It tickles. It's...interesting." She took another sip, larger this time. "I think I like it."

He decided he rather enjoyed seeing her try something new; it was as though he could experience it again for the first time vicariously through her. But that alone was a disturbing line of thinking. He pushed the fruit tray across the table towards her. "You had better eat something."

Obediently she picked up a fork, speared a strawberry, and took a bite. Her glass was half empty already, because she had liked the pleasant fizz, liked the subtle fruit flavors on her tongue, liked the way it warmed her from the inside. She knew this might be a once in a lifetime experience, but she could not bring herself to savor it.

The ship rocked a little, and she started in alarm.

"We've lifted off," Balthier said. "No need to worry."

"Eighteen hours, then," she said, and he gave a brief nod.

She held out her glass for him to refill. "I'll take the sofa," she said.

"Don't be ridiculous. What sort of gentleman would I be?" He ignored the snort of derision she gave, topping up her glass and his own. "Drink it slowly; it will go to your head."

It was going to her stomach. The warmth seeped through her body, invading her limbs with a kind of curious lethargy that she found as strange as she did pleasant. It infused her whole body with a hazy glow, as if she'd been wrapped in a warm blanket.

"I don't think I sleep very well in beds anymore, thank you," she said, and yawned. "I'd prefer the sofa."

"Was yours not to your liking last night?" He studied her curiously. Already the alcohol had relaxed her; her stiff posture had softened - she no longer sat rigid in her chair but lounged comfortably.

"It was fine," she said. "I just didn't...sleep well." She colored delicately, but he did not know whether the flush indicated embarrassment or inebriation. Already she was halfway through her second glass. He briefly considered taking it from her, but decided instead to allow her to learn her own lesson on moderation, as he had learned his at a similar age.

"I think it was too quiet," she said thoughtfully. "I've gotten so used to Vaan's snoring. Or one of the other children kicking me, or stealing my blanket." She shrugged, then said in a thoughtful tone, "I don't think I know how to sleep when I don't have to fight for it."

Ahh. She _would_ be one of the chatty ones.

"You never answered my question, you know."

Balthier blinked. "What?"

"About your letter. I asked who you had written to."

 _Too_ chatty. "I didn't answer because it's none of your business." Annoyed, he took refuge in cruelty. "What could possibly make you think I'd share my personal business with a street child of the lower classes?"

She clapped a hand over her mouth to silence the brief spurt of laughter that escaped, but the mirth sparkled in her eyes.

He clenched his jaw. "I insult you and you have the audacity to laugh?"

"Because you don't _really_ think that," she said. "You just said it to deflect. Besides, why should I be offended? Am I to blame for my circumstances? Should I be ashamed of being born to parents that weren't nobility?" She tossed back the last of her champagne. "You use condescension to keep people at a distance, because if they're angry, they won't look too closely. But I'm _used_ to insults. The Imperial soldiers spat them at us every day for years. After a while, I learned to let them just roll off. So," she said, setting down her glass and leaning forward. "Who did you write to? Does it have something to do with Draklor Laboratory?"

She was too perceptive by half. And he was half-tempted to tell her all. He settled for refilling both of their glasses, emptying the last of the bottle.

"I'm not in the habit of discussing my personal affairs and I don't intend to begin now," he said. Besides, she would find out soon enough.

Her lips pursed into a moue of disappointment. "I wish you would learn to trust us, just a little," she said.

He smiled sardonically. "I learned early on that no one can be trusted."

She left her glass on the table, untouched, twisted in the chair to hang her legs over one arm, and rested her cheek against the back. "That's such a sad way to live," she murmured on a yawn. She closed her eyes. Her sleepless night seemed to have caught up with her. But she was warm and relaxed. She stretched with her whole body, her arms raised over her head, her toes pointed. She did not see Balthier's gaze linger on the bare expanse of her stomach, on her upthrust breasts as she arched, then curled into the chair.

He watched her in silence for several minutes, heard her breathing grow deep and even. Doubtless he shouldn't have let her have so much champagne. But at least asleep, she couldn't question him further, attempting to wear down his resistance by making a nuisance of herself. Although she did that anyway, looking so bloody soft and touchable, all rosy cheeks and soft skin, pink lips he knew would taste of champagne and strawberries.

He sighed, wrestling with himself for a few moments, trying to decide what he ought to do with her. At length, he decided on the bed, rising to jerk down the covers, then returning to slide his arms beneath her knees and shoulders, lifting her carefully to prevent waking her. She turned her face against his shoulder, making a soft, kittenish sound. He deposited her gently upon the mattress, carefully unlacing her shoes and slipping them off of her feet to set them on the floor at the foot of the bed. After a moment's hesitation, he decided on taking down her hair as well, untying the bit of ribbon that bound it.

Mistake. The soft cloud of her hair fell free, shining and silky upon the pillow. The scent of the soap from last night's bath - lavender, as he'd expected - drifted up to tease his nose. And he had been correct, the fragrance suited her. This close to her, he noticed a smattering of tiny golden freckles across the bridge of her nose, and wondered how he had not noticed the purple smudges beneath her eyes, betraying her lack of restful sleep.

He had not slept well, either. She had invaded his dreams just as she invaded his waking hours. How could he be expected to hold her at a distance when even his subconscious betrayed him? He had had no problems prior to her; he had long since mastered the art of remaining aloof, uninvolved. How had she managed to worm her way under his skin, insert herself into his thoughts, flow through his veins as though she were in his very blood?

She shifted in her sleep, curling onto her side facing him, snuggling deeper into the plush softness of the mattress. Her left hand rested on the pillow beside her head, his ring hooked loosely on her finger, in imminent danger of falling off of her hand altogether. He reached for it, with the intention of reclaiming it, but somehow found himself pushing it back on instead. He tried to tell himself it was to maintain their story, but in reality, it merely satisfied some primal instinct inside of him to leave some mark, some proprietary symbol on her, with her.

He shot a rueful glance at the sofa. She could have fit on it comfortably, but he was a head taller than she. It would be a cramped fit, and certainly not conducive to sleep.

A darkling thought. The bed was large - he imagined it could fit three more people comfortably. And he was only one.

And really, he was not, after all, _that_ much of a gentleman.

\--

It was some hours later when Penelo awoke from her nap by degrees, her languid stretch interrupted by the bands of heat and muscle that restricted her movement. For a moment, she thought the events of the last month or so had been a dream and that even now she was curled on her pallet in Lowtown, flanked by the warm bodies of the other street children. But no bony knees pressed into her back, no one's hair dangled over her face, tickling her nose. No one had unwittingly wrenched her blanket away from her in the night, leaving her to shiver.

A skitter of awareness shivered through her as the pillow beneath her head flexed gently, revealing itself to be not a pillow at all, but someone's arm. Balthier's arm. It had to be. She tried to gather her thoughts, but they were hazy and fluttered away from her even as she snatched at them. Bits of memory, fuzzy strings of conversation.

She remembered saying, "I'll take the sofa." This was certainly not the sofa.

With a sort of detached curiosity she opened her eyes, attempting to focus. Bare chest, two inches from the tip of her nose. Glancing upwards was impossible; the top of her head knocked the underside of his chin, and he shifted irritably in sleep, grumbling something under his breath. The arm beneath her head curled around, hand plunging into her hair, gathering a fistful of it, rubbing it between his fingers like a child might worry the edges of a blanket or the floppy ears of a beloved stuffed animal. The arm wrapped around her at her back pressed along her spine, tugging her into the curve of his body, fingers absently stroking the nape of her neck. Then there was a rumble in his chest, a self-satisfied purr of sound, like a large cat would make.

Her arms were curled between them, cool hands warmed by the heat of his chest. Somehow, his knee had worked between both of hers so that they were twined together, her left leg draped over his. As indecent as it might've been for them to share a bed, she was still fully clothed, save for shoes, and the belt buckle pressing against the soft flesh of her stomach told her that he still wore his trousers, at least.

She found it telling that as unapproachable as he was in his waking hours, now, in his sleep, he had enveloped her securely in his arms. Her heart ached for him, because as much as he denied a desire for intimate relationships, she knew it for a lie, had heard the loneliness in his voice. He was wounded, suspicious, and distrustful; his mysterious past had shaped him in that fashion and he wore those scars like armor. But unconsciously, his body betrayed him. He clung to her like a lifeline, as if he needed to touch her. As if he needed to be touched, to feel alive, to feel something other than the coldness he showed everyone.

"Poor, lonely man," she sighed, and stroked her fingertips across his chest. The motion elicited another approving sound from his throat, and he nuzzled her hair. She supposed she should have been annoyed, offended even, that he had climbed into bed with her instead of doing the honorable thing and taking the couch himself. But instead she was just...warm. Sleepy, warm, and protected from the outside world by the security and comfort of Balthier's arms around her.

She closed her eyes and eased the tiniest bit closer. It was nice, for once, to simply be held.

\--

The fragrance of lavender. A fistful of silken hair caught in his fingers. The soft press of her bare stomach against his. One of his legs caught between hers. Ahhh, this was a dream he knew well. There were extra touches this time; the gentle sigh of her breath at his throat, the way a few strands of her hair clung to the stubble that shadowed his jaw. Somehow the weight of her pressed against him was more solid, more real than before.

He stroked his fingers down her back, but his path was impeded by the thin strings binding her top to her chest. But his agile fingers made short work of them; a slight tug pulled the loose bows free, and the material sagged. Another gentle pull, and she was divested of the garment completely. He tossed it aside, not caring where it fell. He heard her quick, indrawn breath, but disregarded it as immaterial. In his dreams, her missishness had always melted under the heat of his ardor.

In a smooth motion he rolled her to her back, one hand spanning her flat stomach, the other braced beside her head. Her eyes were unfocused, dazed, as if she hadn't yet fully processed what had happened. He watched, bemused, as a tide of hot color swept over her face, creeping down her throat and over her chest. She gave a futile jerk, as if to cover herself, but he snatched her hands up in his, pinning them beside her head. She had never done _that_ before, excepting the night he'd watched her bathing at the hot spring.

But the cobwebs of sleep were clearing away, and he had to face the truth, that the bits that had made it _seem_ so very real were the bits that had made it real, and he should have known from the very first. He should have put her away from him immediately, for he had no right at all to touch her.

Her hands clenched and unclenched, still held fast by his. He ought to release her. He was _going_ to release her. He glanced down, not at her face, but at the breasts he'd uncovered. Swallowed tightly. Eventually. He was going to release her _eventually_. Another thick swallow; his mouth had gone dry.

"You...you..." Her body vibrated with tension beneath him, quaking with fury, with embarrassment. She struggled for words, but couldn't come up with anything appropriate, because he was staring at her breasts and she'd never seen an expression on his face quite like that before.

"Are you going to hit me, then, if I let you go?" The question was deceptively mild, directed to her breasts rather than her face.

"Yes!" She snapped indignantly.

"Good. That's good, then." He released her wrists at once, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. The fine tremor that shook it did not go unnoticed by her. His shoulders bunched, the muscles of his abdomen clenched as if in preparation for the violent fury he expected her to unleash.

And she...did nothing. She ought to have. She drew in a large breath to berate him, but it shuddered out instead, useless. The twisted covers were just there; she could easily have reached them, grabbed them, covered herself.

But...no one had _ever_ looked at her like that.

His eyes flicked from her breasts to her face, narrowed.

"You ought to have hit me," he said, and his voice had lowered to a feral growl.

She gave a jerky nod.

"More fool, you." He loomed over her, vaguely menacing, angry now that he had given her an avenue for escape and she had not taken it. "You had your chance."

He moved in closer, his knee widening the vee of her thighs, pressing forward until she gasped. His hands settled on her waist, sliding up the smooth flesh, lips quirking as he felt her muscles contract beneath his hands, flinching as if the contact tickled. His fingers lingered over her ribcage, feeling the delicacy of the bones beneath the skin, then continued up, brushing the undersides of her breasts, then filling his hands with them. The tender flesh was soft, so smooth and perfect. Her rapid heartbeat thrummed against his fingertips. Her nipples pebbled under his palms and he let out an unsteady breath, unprepared for the reality of touching her like this. Dreams, however wicked, paled in comparison. She was so much softer, so much more beautiful, so much _more_ than he could ever have imagined.

His hands were hot, so hot. He was searing her skin, she was sure, and she squirmed, trying to ease the ache that had started low in her belly. His hands contracted infinitesimally; her back arched, and the movement pressed her breasts into his hands.

He was lost. He groaned, a raw sound of pure defeat. His body covered hers, heavy, hard where she was soft, a riot of foreign textures and sensations. His bare chest was on hers, his hands cradled her neck, lifting her to receive his kiss. Her hands had somehow found his shoulders, one clutching desperately, the other tentatively exploring the muscles that flexed in his back. This kiss was nothing like the one before, which had been all discovery, totally chaste in comparison. This kiss raged out of control, explosive and volatile. It swept her rational self away, set her adrift in a fierce current, leaving only a being of pure sensation in its wake. She trembled, she sighed, she lifted herself to his hands, reveling in his abandonment and her own.

His hands cupped her rear, lifting her into the the thrust of his hips, and this time she did not draw away in shock, this time she undulated against him, hating the thin fabric of her pants, the tight leather of his that separated their flesh. She felt him shudder, felt his hands grip a fraction harder than necessary. His breath was hot at her ear, her neck. She felt his unshaven jaw abrade the tender flesh of her throat. Felt his teeth scrape there with an electric shock that curled her nails into his shoulders, forced a soft cry from her tight throat.

His fingers trespassed beneath the waistband of her pants, cursing the fabric that hindered him, then sliding deftly over the generous curves of her pert bottom. And then his fingers faltered, because the texture of her soft skin had changed beneath his fingertips, still smooth, but oddly so, and with a slight ripple. Scar tissue. It brought him up short, and he stilled. She did as well, her breath hitching in her chest.

Passion fled as if it had never been, but still his fingers searched, incredulously. The mutilated flesh stretched across her rear and lower back, too low to be visible when she was clothed, but there nonetheless.

"Don't." Her voice was husky, clogged with a sudden, irrational onslaught of tears. She shoved at his chest ineffectually.

"What the bloody hell happened to you?" he demanded. But he already knew - his mind worked in a frenzy to click the pieces of the puzzle into place. Her tearful plea for his assistance the night the healer had cauterized her, her fevered dreams of fire and death. She had been burned before, and badly. The proof of it she bore upon her body, carrying both mark and burden eternal.

" _Get - off_!"

This time he released her when she shoved him, rolling away, and she scrambled for the blanket, drawing it protectively about her shoulders. Her hair was mussed from his hands, her cheeks still tinged with pink, her lips bruised from his kiss. But her eyes were shiny bright with unshed tears, sparkling on her lashes like diamonds. They pierced him, accusatory.

He drew himself up to a seated position, returning her stare with his own.

"What happened?" he repeated. Because he needed to hear it; for the first time in years, he actually cared. Because she had been hurt, and he had not been there to protect her. And he knew that the injury had been years ago - the wound had long since healed - but even knowing that did not ease the answering hurt that rose in his chest, clawing at his heart.

She averted her eyes, huffing her irritation. "What business is it of yours?" she tossed at him spitefully, and he heard the echo of his own words in her scathing tone. He had offered nothing and expected everything, and he winced to be reminded of his own selfishness.

"All right," he said amiably. "I propose a trade. A story for a story."

" _Which_ stories?" She narrowed her eyes, as distrustful in this moment as she had ever accused him of being.

"I want to know how you came to have that scar," he said. "And in return, I shall tell you the contents of the letter I posted in Balfonheim."

She considered this a moment, studying him intently. "I'll know if you're lying," she reminded him. "And I want the _whole_ story, not just the contents of the letter. And it had better not be some bland recitation of the weather and inquiries after everyone's health. I'm not trading my story for some polite letter home."

The ghost of an acerbic smile touched his lips. If she only knew how right - and how very wrong - she was.

"I swear it is every bit as sordid as you first imagined," he said. It amused him that here they were, haggling over bits and pieces of their respective pasts. He had always guarded his like a miser with coins, and his own willingness to share - or, at least, to trade for it - had surprised even him. And he realized that he would never have made such an offer if he didn't trust her implicitly.

She nodded, finally, in acceptance. "All right. It's a deal."

"Hold that thought." He rose from the bed, grabbed up his shirt, and shrugged into it, then pressed the buzzer on the nightstand that would summon a stewardess. "I, at least, am going to require a good deal of whiskey."


	10. Chapter 10

If the stewardess, who returned a tense and silent half hour later, had experienced any confusion as to why a newlywed couple might call for an entire bottle of whiskey with their supper, she did not voice it. She merely laid out their repast on the low table, replaced the champagne flutes with smaller, sturdier glasses, and set down fresh silverware.

Balthier clutched the bottle of whiskey by the neck as though it were the only steady thing in a world collapsing in on itself, reengaging the lock after the stewardess had left. He collapsed into a chair, propping his feet up on the table, eschewing his elegant manners in favor of comfort. Penelo yet huddled small and still on the bed. She had not moved since he'd summoned the stewardess, had not made even the smallest bit of noise, as though she thought she might be able to disappear if she tried hard enough to do so, to just vanish into the ether and slip away forever.

He leaned over, patted the sofa beside his chair. "Come. Sit." His voice was gentle, because he sensed the fragility in her, the tightly-wound tension that threatened to spring free and overtake her. A moment of hesitation, a vague look in her eyes reminiscent of a prisoner sentenced to death, and then she unfolded herself gracefully, carefully rising from the bed, dragging the blanket with her. She settled onto the sofa, resuming her defensive pose. Her bare toes peeked out beneath the blanket. She looked so young, so vulnerable. He could not remember a time he had ever been that young, if he had ever been so innocent.

He cracked the seal on the bottle in his hand, removed the cap, took a healthy swallow. She seemed somewhat startled by this, as if seeing him drink straight from the bottle had been totally unexpected. The whiskey warmed his throat, pooled like fire in his stomach. He had never much liked it, he had always preferred to be clearheaded, he had loathed the stripping effect of liquor, the way it revealed things he had always wished to hide. But just now he needed the lowering of inhibitions, needed it to loosen his tongue, to pry the secrets from the depths of his soul, to ease them out of the deepest parts of himself.

He waved a careless hand at the plates spread out on the table. "Eat."

A brief shake of her head. "Can't," she said, and her voice was scratchy, strained.

"I insist." He plucked a roll from the tray, offering it to her. Reluctantly she thrust a hand out from beneath the blanket, taking the roll with a grimace. She picked it apart in tiny pieces, the bits she ate mere whispers of flavor on her tongue, more air than substance.

"You first," she whispered. She shifted, withdrawing to huddle into the far corner of the sofa, lost amidst the folds of the blanket.

Another hearty swallow. The bottle dangled carelessly from his fingers. He heard himself speaking as if from a distance, as if he could detach himself from the words and listen as an observer himself. As if he could distance himself from the pain of his past.

"The letter," he said, "was to my father. Cidolfus Demen Bunansa." He saw her eyebrows draw together, an expression of vague recognition for the name that she could not yet place.

"He is better known, perhaps, as Dr. Cid, the mastermind behind the manufacted nethicite on which Archadia has relied so heavily in its quest for the domination of Ivalice."

There it was, the wide eyes, the open-mouthed expression of shock and dismay. He wondered briefly if she would think that he had betrayed them, that his letter had outlined their plans, revealed their scheme to overthrow Vayne in his own kingdom. But he saw no anger in her face, no suspicion. She had not even considered the idea, and that both perplexed and heartened him. It seemed that little Penelo trusted him implicitly as well.

"I take it you're not on good terms." She made it a statement, not a question. He gave a harsh bark of laughter, but there was no humor in it, only a dark animosity, a seething, consuming hatred.

"The understatement of the century, dear girl." He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "No, I know of no single person in all of Ivalice more deserving of hatred than my father. His weakness, his very corruption and lust for power has been the downfall of entire kingdoms. He has destroyed everything I have ever loved." His voice had cracked on the last word, and he brought the whiskey to his lips once again, hoping it would mask the fissures in his composure. It was not enough; it could not soothe the torment that gripped him. It did not blunt the sharp edge of his anger, and that anger cut at him from the inside, shredding him to ribbons.

"I was his prodigy, you see. I was to be his grandest contribution to the Empire. A Judge at sixteen, such a credit to my exalted lineage. I played my part well for a time. I did not question whether or not it was the right of Archades to command and conquer. I had been brought up from the cradle to believe that Archades' rightful place in the world was to be the beating heart of all of Ivalice." He swiped his hand across his mouth as though he could wipe away the bitter taste of the words, took another drink to rinse them from his tongue.

"But then he discovered the nethicite, and all else was forgotten, unimportant. He lived in his laboratory, neglected his family. Three sons and a daughter, all insignificant compared to his all-important _research_. It seemed as though he had forgotten that we even existed. I wish to the gods that he had." His gaze was unfocused now, lost in the memories of a lifetime ago. Shades of the past danced tauntingly before his eyes. "My brothers disappeared," he said, "and my father began to talk to himself. It was clear to me that he had gone mad. He talked of blood sacrifices and carnage, dark rituals that required performing in honor of dark gods, and it did not require much imagination to realize what he had done. The servants steered well clear of him, none wanted to be his next victim, yet none dared to speak against him, to denounce him as a monster. Not even I dared to cross him."

He raised haunted eyes to meet hers, looking but not seeing. "No one cared about my brothers, of course. They were inconsequential, scapegraces, both of them. They were not driven, they did nothing to advance the cause of Archadia. And Dr. Cid was everything to the Empire. So there were no charges, no inquiries. It was simply as if they had never been, never existed at all. I wondered when my turn would come, but he always looked through me as if he could not see me. Instead, he took Sarema, my sister. She had been so frightened of our father. I had assured her I would protect her, but..." His eyes dropped to the floor, and she felt his shame, his guilt, as if they were tangible things. He did not need to speak the words; the truth of what had happened was written on his face.

"She was just twelve years old," he said finally. "And I...ran. I gave up everything, I fled Archadia, renounced my Judgeship, broke with the Empire immediately. I became everything he despised. He destroyed me, and I hated him with everything that was left inside me."

"The letter?" she asked hesitantly.

"The letter gave voice to my intention to take my revenge," he said, in a low, dangerous tone. "I wanted him to fear me, to wonder, to worry. I wanted to torment him as the memory of him, of his madness, has tormented me. Though his grip on sanity, at this point, may be too weak for him to understand my meaning, perhaps even to care. It has been six years."

She thought for a moment how he had worried for her, how angry he had been when he felt she had placed herself in danger, how he had treated her so much differently than he had the rest of their party. How she and Sarema were roughly the same age. Or would have been, had Sarema lived. She shifted a bit, uncomfortably. "Do I...remind you of her? Your sister?"

He scoffed. "Not in the slightest. Sarema was...delicate. Fragile. She was so quiet, always lingering in the background. I scarely ever heard her speak above a whisper, and she was always lost in the shuffle of three older brothers. She was always clothed in such muted colors that she looked like a watercolor painting, drifting through our home like a little ghost. She was sweet and gentle, but there was always the feeling that one day she might just...fade away." In the years that had passed, he had had to struggle to hold on to her memory, but even her face seemed smudged, blurred in his mind, growing fainter whenever he tried to recall it. He could no longer summon the image of her smile, the precise shade of her eyes, the exact color of her hair. He was losing her a bit more every day.

No, Penelo was nothing like Sarema. In contrast, Penelo was vibrant, colorful, confrontational, challenging, etched indelibly upon his memory. Sarema would never have fought with him, would never have thought to speak a single harsh word to him. Penelo did so frequently and with great relish. No, they were nothing alike...but the thought of losing Penelo had affected him just as deeply and painfully as it had when he had lost Sarema. He had not been touched, cursed, with such emotions in years, but when it came to Penelo, he writhed with them, burned with them. Somehow she had ignited something inside of him, some primal protective instinct. She had resurrected emotions he'd long thought dead and buried, emotions he had been content to let go to rot. Many before her had tried and failed, but she had done it without thought, without effort. He wondered if she had any idea, but decided she did not. How could she?

"So now you know," he said flatly. And he knew she did not judge him, but nonetheless his tainted blood disgusted him, by all rights _ought_ to have disgusted her. But she merely looked at him with those wide, clear eyes, and he wondered if the tears that washed them were for him. He did not deserve her sympathy, her pity, her understanding. Another harsh swallow of whiskey; by now it was going down pleasantly. He wondered if he slurred his words yet, decided to put it to the test.

"And now it is your turn," he said, but the words sounded smooth enough to him.

She erupted into motion, reaching out and snatching the bottle from his hand. He relinquished it easily, surprised. She squeezed her eyes shut, took a large gulp. Swallowed heavily, teared up, coughed and gasped as the liquor burned down her throat.

"Ugh." She pulled a face, glaring down the bottle as if it had wounded her purposefully. "How can anyone _like_ this stuff? It's like drinking fire. And it tastes horrible."

Her revulsion drew from him an unwitting smile. "That's a rather good whiskey, actually. But it is something of an acquired taste. Give it here." He held out his hand, but she pulled away.

"No," she said, focused on the bottle. "I might need it." She grimaced, as if the prospect disgusted her. "Maybe it'll improve upon itself if I have more."

It would not, at least not for her. She liked the sweet champagne; she did _not_ like the smoke-and-leather taste of the whiskey, however fine. He did not want her soused before she could repay him in kind for his own story, but neither did he wish to deny her the comfort of a bit of old-fashioned liquid courage, had she the need for it.

"The story, Penelo," he prompted. "We had a deal."

"I know," she gave a shuddering sigh. "It's just that...it hurts so much to talk about it. I never have before." Her voice was husky with tears, her lips trembled. But she steeled herself against the tears and forged on.

"Three years ago, I lived in Rabanstre. Properly lived, in a small house near the center of the city, not like now in Lowtown. My parents had just taken in Vaan after his brother died. It was overcrowded, of course. With Vaan there, it made six of us, with Mama and Papa and my brothers and I." She sloshed the whiskey in the bottle, watching the amber colored liquid catch the light. She wondered if she could choke down another swallow. Decided to risk it. Barely forced it down her throat.

"The Archadian army attacked in the dead of night. I had been out with Vaan that night; we'd snuck out against Papa's orders. We'd taken up jobs with Migelo, one of the shopkeepers, because there had never really been enough to go around, and now there was an extra mouth to feed. It was the first time - the only time - I can remember ever arguing with my parents." A tear escaped, sliding down the curve of her cheek. But she neither sniffled nor sobbed, gave no indication that she'd even noticed it. He wondered when she had learned to cry so silently.

"I didn't know how unsafe the city was already, how each day brought us closer and closer to the brink of war. They had only wanted to keep us safe, of course, but I...I thought I knew better, I thought I was so _grown up_." Another tear. It dripped off her chin, splattered on the back of the hand gripping the bottle. "So I was out with Vaan when...when I saw the rain of arrows as they soared over the stone gates. They blazed like comets, because they'd been dipped in pitch and set on fire. It was instant chaos. The fires spread quickly, too quickly to contain them. It destroyed whole blocks of buildings. It destroyed _my_ block. The fire had started on the roof, and with all the houses crammed so tightly together, it spread in a matter of minutes. It was well past midnight. My parents, my brothers were sleeping. They never had a chance." A steady stream of tears now, her eyes were bleak, her face pale.

"I tried anyway. I had to try. You must understand that, right? I _had_ to try." It seemed essential to her that he understand that, and he nodded silently to reassure her. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to compose herself, to force back the tears that choked her. "There was too much smoke. They were already gone, already dead. I couldn't save them. There was nothing of them left to be saved. The smoke was so thick, it had stolen their breath away as they slept. And then, I couldn't breathe either. And I didn't care." She took a steadying breath. "The roof collapsed. I was trapped under a burning beam. That's how I got the scar; that's how I was burned. I don't remember it. I was already unconscious. But Vaan had followed me, he knew I was inside, and he pulled me out. He saved my life. I wish he hadn't."

He lurched forward in his chair. "Don't say that. Don't _ever_ say that."

"It's true, though. Maybe you were right. Maybe I _do_ have a death wish. Maybe I _have_ been trying to die this whole time." She dashed away the tears from her cheeks with shaking fingers, lifting tragic eyes to his. "I should have been there," she whispered brokenly. "I should have been with them. I should have died with them. Why them? Why them, and not me?"

Survivor's guilt. He wondered how he had not recognized it before, since he had suffered it as well. And it was a special kind of hell, lingering over all the things that might have been, considering what one might have done differently, the myriad ways the outcome might've been changed. He rose, gently prying the bottle from her white-knuckled hand to set it upon the table. Then he dropped onto the sofa beside her, gathering her, blankets and all, into his arms. She went gratefully, climbing onto his lap like a child, desperately in need of comfort. The steadily falling tears quickly soaked his shirt front and still she did no more than hitch her breath, struggling to keep the sounds of her grief buried inside her.

And he wondered when the last time she had cried for them had been, if she had ever. Somehow he suspected not, because she had been alone then, responsible for herself. Gods, she had been alone. Trying to survive in a world that no longer held any measure of safety or security, in a world that had changed forever in an instant, stripped her of all she held dear. How had she managed it? How had she stayed sane? He had had Fran, who had plucked him from a rough bar in Bhujerba, given him expectations to rise to, taught him everything he knew, practically raised him from broken boy into arrogant man. To whom had she turned, in her hour of need?

"There's barracks there, now." Her head was bent, her fingers grasped his shirt, clutching as if he anchored her to the present, as if she feared she might be swept away into the torrential sorrow of the past otherwise. "Where my home was. They cleared away the rubble, the bodies...and they built their barracks on top of it. The same soldiers that killed my family, they sleep there. They live where I lived. They live where my family died."

She spoke in what was barely even a whisper; she spoke through years of pain and torment, the words dragged out of her, out of the sorest, rawest pieces of her heart. "But the worst of it is that we argued." Her voice broke, high, inconsolable. "The last time I saw them alive, we had been fighting. Their last memories of me, my last memories of them, were ones of anger. I will never forgive myself for that. Never."

With exquisite care, his hand cupped her head, stroking her hair, pressing her face against his chest. She struggled, pushed away, even as his other arm wrapped around her back.

"No!" Her voice was ragged, scratchy. "I'll cry. I don't want to cry!"

"You're already crying." And his fingers lifted from her hair to swipe the wetness from her cheeks as proof.

She hiccoughed. "I _can't_ cry," she said plaintively, with a self-deprecating flutter of bitter laughter. "I don't think I could ever stop if I started."

His face was carefully neutral, but she wondered what he must think of her, the girl who had abandoned her family to cruel, merciless deaths. And she remembered that he had experienced the same trauma, the same heartache. The same helplessness. The same sundering, soul-rending grief.

"You _need_ to cry," he said softly. And he crushed her pathetic resistance, wrapping her securely in his arms. He could feel her rigid self-control splintering beneath his fingers, breaking her down to the very essence of her being, crumbling the years of self-reliance away until all at once she was reduced again to the abandoned child she had once been, frightened, alone, and lost.

She tried not to. But she cried all the same, in great wrenching sobs, in pitiful wails of anguish, in such complete and abject misery that nothing he could do, nothing he could say could possibly have eased the terrible magnitude of her suffering. And in those long, agonizing minutes of torment, she was laid bare, naked and vulnerable, and he did not know how to comfort her, to care for her, to piece her broken heart back together again, for he had never been able to do it for himself.

Eventually she quieted, resting silent and still against him, her face still pillowed against his chest, fingers still clenched tightly in the fabric of his shirt. She felt empty, devoid of emotion. She was simply a hollow shell, built of the fragments of a person that no longer existed. If she moved, she would shatter into a million pieces, fracture irrepairably. But the rhythmic pounding of Balthier's heart beneath her cheek steadied her, gave her something to focus on, soothed her like a lullaby.

"All better, now?" She felt the words more than heard them, rumbling in his chest.

She shook her head, a tiny, nearly imperceptible movement, because she didn't think she could manage anything more than that. Her voice, when she spoke, she didn't recognize for its hoarseness, the way it scratched out of her throat as though it had claws. "It'll never be better."

"I know." She thought his lips had brushed her hair, breathing the words into the fine strands. "I know, darling."

This time the endearment was not for the benefit of whoever else might be listening, not given for a ruse or a deception, to maintain any sort of charade. This time he had meant the word. And the tears flowed freely again, because she knew that he truly did understand.

She had finally fallen asleep, curled up so trustingly in his lap. He had managed to stretch out to the best of his abilities, and she had tucked her head beneath his chin, turned to face him to allow him to rub her back, and lay silently until the soothing stroke of his hand had eased her into sleep. Her death grip on his shirt had loosened, her small hands resting, quiescent, on his shoulders. The blanket had slid down around her waist, but she had been too preoccupied to either notice or care.

He had not. He was intensely aware of the pressure of her breasts against his chest, the rise and fall of her chest with each gentle breath she took. He wondered at her trust in him, wondered if she knew the toll that the silk of her skin beneath his fingers, the warmth of her breath on his throat was taking on him. But the salt of her tears was still drying on her cheeks, the echoes of her grief still fresh in his mind, and her very vulnerability in these moments kept his touch light, gentle, without demand, giving comfort without seeking response.

They were kindred. Two wounded, tormented souls, wishing desperately to forget, doomed always to remember. He knew it on a visceral level, recognized the significance, wrestled with the knowledge that this girl, this totally unsuitable, contrary, utterly perfect girl _knew_ him, understood him in a way that no other person ever had or ever could. He had told her things, admitted things to her, that he had never spoken to another person, had never even voiced aloud before.

It scared the hell out of him. He should have guarded himself against it from the very first, from the very first moment he'd ever worried about her. Worrying lead to caring, and caring lead to...things that were best unmentioned. But it was too late for him, for he already cared. She had slipped under his guard like a master thief, had unmasked him, had forced him in that effortless way she had to reveal himself, had made him _want_ to reveal himself. To her. Only to her.

And she had in turn revealed herself to him, had trusted him in a way that he knew she had not trusted even in Vaan. The thought humbled him, sparked a glow in his chest he had not felt in years, since before Sarema's death. She had chosen him to confide in, and he would treasure that confidence, protect it, as he would protect her.

This he had already accepted; her vulnerabilities were his as well. He could not ignore the roiling emotions he suffered when she was in danger, when she was hurt, when she cried. For her sake and his own, he would safeguard her. And if with that duty came moments like this, moments when he held her, when the world narrowed to a space that contained only the two of them, well, he would not deny them. He had, after all, already tried to put her from his mind, to keep her at a distance. That had been a miserable failure all around, culminating in the most wrenching, agonizing, freeing experience of his life. Because of her, his armor had shattered to shards. Because of her, he thought, he had perhaps - finally - begun to heal.

\--

He awoke when the ship docked, jerked from a sound, if uncomfortable, sleep on the sofa. A thin stream of early morning sunlight poured in through the window, puddling on the floor near the sofa. The blanket was draped around him, but the warmth it lent was paltry for Penelo no longer shared it with him. He glanced around; she stood, fully dressed, at the window.

"We've arrived." Her face was pale, her voice still the tiniest bit strained.

He rose, stretching muscles that had cramped during the night spent on the sofa, wincing. The buttons of his shirt were still undone, his vest was still slung over the back of the chair, his shoes tucked neatly beneath the bed. He joined her at the window, pushing back the curtains entirely, flooding the room with light. The vast sprawl of Archadia stretched before them, lush green hills striped with roads, neat rows of buildings stretched along them, leading back to the massive palace that loomed in the distance.

Her expression had not changed, except for the minutest narrowing of her eyes. The opulence, the prosperity disgusted her. The gaudy display of richness, of excess that should have dazzled instead rankled because it reminded her of the conquering of her own kingdom, how this kingdom had crushed the spirits of the Dalmascan citizens, had stripped it of its own resources to claim them for their own. She had hated it on sight, a feeling he knew only too well. He, too, despised what this land represented.

And so, with just the barest touch of irony evident in his voice, he turned to her and said, "Welcome to Archadia."


	11. Chapter 11

Their passage off the passenger ship, out of the Aerodrome, and into Archadia proper had been easier than she had expected. Penelo had been fraught with worry the entire time that somehow they would be discovered and apprehended. It was only the calming grip of Balthier's hand on hers that had steadied her nerves, kept the ever-threatening panic at bay. She wondered if he even realized that he still held her hand in his, decided not to point out that the ruse was no longer necessary.

She glanced back at the Aerodrome as they exited, knowing that the rest of their party was soon to arrive, sparing a thought, a silent plea to whatever gods might be listening, for their safe passage. A mantle of constant worry had settled over her shoulders and would not be lifted, she knew, until they were reunited.

The outskirts of the city were filled with greenery, lush blooms weighing heavily on the trees, the air redolent with their perfume. A light breeze scattered petals; they drifted in the wind like pink snowflakes, littering the path they walked upon, forming a carpet of satin beneath her feet. Dalmasca was mostly deserts sprinkled through with the occasional oasis; she had never seen so many flowers in her life. The profusion of color was both wondrous and jarring to her starved senses.

"It's beautiful here," she murmured acidly, bitterly.

Balthier, who had not thought of Archadia as his home in many years, remained unfazed. "It masks ugliness without end," he replied. "This place has rotted straight through to the core."

The rolling green hills faded away and the narrow streets widened as they entered the capitol city of Archades itself, the simple clothing worn by the residents of the outlying areas paling in comparison to the resplendence of the citydweller's garments. Even Balthier's clothing, which had always appeared to be the height of elegance and refinement to her, seemed somewhat dowdy when put up against the fine silks and satins, embroidered trousers and coats flaunted at every turn.

Her own clothing, the finest by far that she had ever owned, stood out starkly as foreign, the plain garb of the lower classes. She caught the haughty stares of a group of matronly women, covered throat to toes in their heavily decorated finery, staring with disdain at her bare arms, bare midriff, bare back. Her cheeks burned; she felt their piercing stares even they passed the group, lingering on her with such intensity that she itched to turn around and snap at them in anger.

"Don't give them the satisfaction," Balthier muttered, somehow sensing her discomfiture. "You're worth twenty of them." And his hand squeezed hers reassuringly.

That tiny gesture spoke volumes. She treasured it, even as she knew the tentative truce between them could never last. It persisted now only because they were still alone together. The night before had been an anomaly, a few short hours out of time, never to be spoken of in the light of day. Never to be spoken of at all.

The crowd thickened as they approached the heart of the city, they weaved through streams of people, knots of foot traffic obstructing their path. Penelo marveled at the sea of hats set with bobbing feathers, of oversized gowns, of waterfalls of lace and beading stretched across every available section of cloth. She wondered absently how much of this nation's wealth came from the pilfered resources of the nations that Archadia had subjugated. Did these people know what their ruler had done to the rest of Ivalice, how great nations had cowered in fear, had been forced to bend knee to almighty Archadia? And if they did know, did they even care?

Balthier pulled her into a cafe, directing her to wait at one of the tables while he placed an order at the counter. He returned a few moments later with what would pass for breakfast - cups of tea, scones sprinkled with cinnamon and almonds, clotted cream, an assortment of jams. They were wedged into a secluded corner of the terrace with a good view of the streets, no neighboring tables near enough to hear anything spoken between them, provided they modulated their voices.

He indicated a building on the opposite side of the street with a subtle jerk of his head. Penelo looked up - and up - and up. The building towered overhead, spires disappearing into the lowhanging fluffy white clouds overhead.

"Draklor Laboratories," he murmured. "We shall wait here for the others to arrive. Best not to be seen lingering outside."

A frisson of fear slid up her spine. An hour's wait, she supposed. An hour before they knew whether or not their secret entry into the city had been a rousing success or an abject failure. She tipped a bit of sugar and cream into her tea, stirred, sipped. Even the heat of the tea could not melt the core of ice that had settled in her stomach.

"They will be fine," he said, sensing the source of her concern. "We had no trouble entering the city, and I am certainly notorious enough to merit a reward for my capture. I did commandeer the Strahl, after all.

The tiny teacup clattered as she set it down. "You stole it? From the Empire?"

He arched a brow. "What part of sky pirate have you thus far not understood? How would you propose I go about sky pirating without a ship of my own?"

"I didn't really consider...I suppose you stole it when you...left Archades, then?"

"Mmm. I had had the initial testing of her, when she was created. But mass production was deemed too expensive, and they were going to destroy her. Such a beautiful prototype - I could hardly let her go to scrap. It seeming fitting, I suppose, to make my escape with her, and I had grown rather attached. She has served me well over the years. I hold out hope that she may yet be repaired." A vaguely wistful tone in his voice, as if he were reminiscing about a dear friend. And perhaps he was, in a sense.

He nudged the remnants of his breakfast across the table. "Eat. You cannot keep nibbling at your meals; you'll soon waste away."

"I'm really not very hungry." A vast understatement; her stomach pitched and rolled. She wondered how Balthier could maintain his unaffected mien, knowing full well that today they would confront his father. Was he dreading what was to come, of once more having to witness his father's madness, or was he relishing the thought of his revenge?

He had caught sight of someone on the walk outside of the cafe, caught their attention with a subtle gesture, and she craned her neck around him to see. Basch and Fran, walking along the street towards them, looking hale and whole.

Penelo, caught between a sigh of heartfelt relief and a shout of exultant joy, performed neither, intensely aware that any further attention they drew could prove to be catastrophic. Instead she waited silently as Basch and Fran approached, ordered their own meals, and drew chairs up to the table at which Balthier and Penelo were waiting.

"Any trouble?" Balthier asked.

"None," Basch responded.

"An uneventful flight," Fran added, and Penelo thought she heard something faintly disdainful in Fran's voice, as if the Viera had grown used to a life of excitement and disliked the very thought of leisure travel on principle.

"If all goes well, Lady Ashe will arrive shortly with Vaan. I thank you for the map; it was of much assistance," Basch said to Balthier.

"Yes, well, Archadia has changed but little since I was last within its borders," Balthier slung an arm over the back of his chair, affecting a casual pose. "I wouldn't get too accustomed to thanking me if I were you, though. I have goals of my own. For the moment, they align with your own purpose. You'd be a fool to expect the status quo to hold." A warning, however vague, that they could soon find themselves at cross purposes.

Fran stirred her own tea silently, and Penelo wondered how much she knew, if Balthier had confided his past to her. But Fran's face revealed nothing, as usual.

Penelo had thought that perhaps Fran's presence might draw them more unwanted attention, but it seemed that Viera were no strangers to Archades. Indeed, Fran had drawn less notice than she had. But sheltered in the far corner of the terrace as they were, they seemed to be more or less invisible.

She tensed almost imperceptively as a cadre of Imperial soldiers rounded the corner, walking in perfectly uniform strides, heavily armored. They did not appear to be searching for anyone in particular, were merely making their rounds, but Penelo felt her nails dig tiny crescents into her palms.

"You'll give us away," Balthier said in a faintly chiding tone after the group of soldiers had passed. "Behave as if you belong and they will not question you."

Fran had glanced up sharply at Balthier, wondering at his warning to Penelo. She had not noticed the girl's sudden rigidity; that Balthier had noticed was...odd. It bespoke something more than mere camaraderie. She wondered what had passed between them on their trip, suddenly certain that it could not have been described as uneventful. Ashe had flung the two of them together apurpose, that much she was sure of - had the dispossessed princess, too, sensed the tension roiling beneath the surface?

But she wisely said nothing - such things were hardly table conversation, and Balthier would not thank her for drawing attention to his private affairs. Instead she calmly sipped her tea, keeping her thoughts to herself.

Penelo watched the streets further clog with people as the crisp early morning faded into the sultry heat of full daylight. The throngs of people made it difficult to see any further than a few feet, and she searched the crowd desperately, hoping, praying that she would soon see the familiar faces of Vaan and Ashe.

Balthier, in an effort to alleviate her worry, had ordered again at the counter, and two plates of pastries had been set at two additional places at their table. He had hoped that his surety of their imminent arrival would calm her somewhat, but still her eyes swept the streets desperately.

At last she breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief, sinking back into her chair, the stiffness of her spine melting away. She lifted her hand to beckon to someone, and Ashe and Vaan strolled onto the terrace, looking none the worse for their trip. They dropped into the empty chairs, Vaan tearing into his breakfast with all enthusiasm, Ashe neatly preparing her tea and daintily picking apart her scones to slather them with cream and jam.

"Now that we have all arrived," Balthier said, "we ought to discuss our plan of attack for Draklor Laboratories."

"What is the business you claimed we would have there, Balthier?" Ashe asked. "You had best enlighten us, for I am not in the habit of blindly following in the footsteps of pirates. I would know where they lead."

"So distrustful," Balthier admonished, all benign mockery. "As it happens, Draklor is the source of manufacted nethicite. Should you wish to reclaim your birthright - the Dusk Shard, isn't it? - I am afraid we shall have to prise it from the control of the Empire. Unless I miss my mark, and I assure you that I do not, it will be in the possession of Dr. Cid, proprietor and head researcher of Draklor."

"So you propose we attempt to take a heavily guarded facility alone, on what we must trust not to be a fool's errand?" Basch's voice was even and low, but scathing suspicion seeped into his tone, enough that even Penelo's back straightened to offended rigidity. Balthier remained unruffled, or at least he appeared so - she could never be certain with him, he wore his mask of nonchalance so well.

"Not precisely alone," Balthier corrected. "Reddas will accompany us; he is likely waiting even now. He will have cleared us a path, we need only follow it and join him. He will be a worthy ally."

" _Reddas_ ," Ashe said incredulously. "You would have us trust a Judge Magister? Trust the man who destroyed Nabradia, killed my husband, and stole my crown?"

" _Former_ Judge Magister, please," Balthier responded lightly, and Penelo thought she might have heard just a trace of bitterness in his words, the shame of his own past coloring them. "Reddas broke with the Empire long ago, after he witnessed the destruction that nethicite wrought. He claims no allegiance with the Empire and has been working against them for some time."

"It is as Balthier says," Fran broke in. "Reddas has set himself up in Balfonheim, as a patron of pirates and enemies of the Empire. He will not work against us. He has agreed to aid us at the request of Marquis Ondore. And of Balthier, in respect of their long-standing acquaintance."

"How did you come by such knowledge of Draklor?" Basch asked Balthier, suspicion out in full force.

Balthier was silent a moment. He had anticipated such questions, of course, knew that his directives would lead to precisely this interrogation. He had not wished to reveal his reasons for this particular errand, but they were no doubt bound to discover them anyway.

Finally he said, "Dr. Cid is my father. I have seen first hand what devastation his obsession with nethicite has wrought. It has long been my intention to depose him." He caught up a flaky scone in his hand. "The fact of the matter is this: if we bring to ruin the means of production for manufacted nethicite," - he crushed the scone in his fist - "the Empire will crumble." He opened his clenched fist, showering the crumbs of the mangled scone across the table.

Ashe considered his speech. "You would truly see your own father brought so low?"

Balthier sneered, leaned forward, hissed his response. "I would have him crawl on his belly like the snake that he is. I would ruin him as he has ruined me."

\--

Draklor Laboratory appeared nearly deserted. If Ashe and Basch had had any lingering doubts as to the truth of Balthier's claims, they were laid to rest almost immediately. Behind a desk in the lobby, two felled guards were sprawled upon the floor beneath a massive painting depicting Dr. Cid in his younger years.

Ashe's eyes darted between Balthier and the portrait, unabashedly surprised.

"I'm told the likeness is uncanny." Balthier's apathetic statement drew no comment. And it was the truth; there were just enough differences in their faces for proof positive that they were not one and the same, but there was clearly no denying that Balthier was the son of Cidolfus. They had the same strong jawline, the same wickedly arching brows, the same intense green eyes - although Dr. Cid's were accented by oval spectacles. Penelo did her own level best not to gawk - even though she had known well beforehand, it was still somewhat a shock to see it so glaringly displayed before her.

"Let's be off," Balthier said. "It seems that Reddas has left us a trail to follow." He nodded towards a long hallway, where two more guards were slumped, unconscious.

They followed the trail of downed guards like they were bread crumbs, finally coming upon Reddas outside a set of massive double doors. Reddas had heard the sounds of their approach and reacted on instinct, slashing out at them. Swords connected, clashed, as Basch blocked the blow.

"My apologies," Reddas said, withdrawing his blade. "I thought you were another group of henchman come to strike me down. You're later than I had expected."

"Cid?" Balthier asked.

Reddas shook his head, mystified, and gestured to the doors. "Within, speaking to himself. I'd heard rumors, of course, of his madness. I had not expected..." he hesitated. "It is not as bad as people are saying. It is far worse."

A sharp nod from Balthier, grim acknowledgement. "As I expected. He can only have grown worse over time. It is past time to end this. It should have been done long ago."

Reddas crossed an arm over his chest, bowing in salute to Ashe. "My lady, I have done you a terrible disservice. My sword is yours, however long you have need of it."

Ashe's jaw clenched in barely restrained fury. She itched to strike out at the man who had been so instrumental in her kingdom's defeat, but instead she said, "Your actions have devastated my kingdom. You shall make amends here and now."

Reddas had not expected forgiveness and was unshaken by the vitriol in her furious voice. "For what I have wrought, I can never make amends. I can, however, lend my assistance in the reclamation of your crown."

"In all haste, then," Basch said. Together they pushed open the massive doors, invading the inner sanctum of the man they had come to slay.

Dr. Cid stood, arms clasped behind his back, at the large picture window looking down at the sprawling city below. He did not face them as they entered, but he spoke to Balthier.

"Ahh, the prodigal son returns at last. Have you come to kill me, then? He told me you would. Oh, yes."

To the average observer, Balthier's face would have appeared perfectly expressionless. Only Penelo noticed minute narrowing of his eyes, the tightening of his jaw.

"I'll not be drawn into your madness, old man," Balthier said, his voice projecting only indifference, as if he would not give Cid the satisfaction of his hatred.

Cid turned to face them, and Penelo was once again taken aback - it was like seeing Balthier years into the future. The silvered hair, the still-handsome face. Still just as elegant, proud, arrogant. Still wearing that maddening smirk, the intensity of those green eyes undimmed. But the features of the father were harsher, crueler. Where Balthier was fire and recklessness, the father was ice and ruthless inhumanity. His very coldness, soullessness sent a shiver of fear down Penelo's spine.

"And you've brought the _princess_ ," Cid said. "The last remaining soul for whom this nethicite resonates." He held out the glowing stone clutched in his fist. "Do you, too, long for the power contained in this shard, princess? It is your birthright, after all."

The taunt forced Ashe forward a step; Reddas stayed her with his hand at her elbow.

"No. He means to use you," he said to her. "Do not permit him to goad you into it."

"He is mad," she hissed back. "He cannot be allowed to retain possession of the Dusk Shard. He must be stopped!"

"I stand as your sword and shield," Reddas replied. "You _will_ stay out of this fray." He shoved her back towards Fran and Penelo and charged Cid, sword swinging down upon him. The blow connected instead with a protective aura surrounding Cid, the recoil instant and brutal, launching Reddas halfway across the room where he crashed upon the floor in a heap.

Penelo gasped; the force field that had sent Reddas flying dissolved into mist, which solidified behind Cid as a ghostly, looming figure.

Cid merely looked up at it, readjusting his sleeves. "My thanks, Venat."

Balthier felt his heart lurch in his chest, a sick feeling roiling in his stomach. "All this time, you've been taking your orders from that thing?"

Cid glanced at his son. "Venat has done more for the Empire, for me, than any of my execrable, useless sons have ever managed." He stalked across the room, protected by the glow of Venat's shield, stopping briefly before Balthier, staring at his son with something akin to disgust, as if he found the man his son had become abhorrent. "Even now you continue to disappoint, Ffamran. I had expected more of you, better of you."

Balthier tensed, his hand jerking to the gun holstered on his hip, but Basch stayed him. "No. We cannot defeat him here. Not when he is protected."

"He is a waste of humanity," Balthier snarled furiously, and his voice dripped with all of his unvented rage, unsatisfied revenge. Cid resumed his casual stride toward the door, unconcerned with his son's judgment.

"My work in Archadia has been completed," he said. "Venat tells me there is more nethicite, more power than can be dreamed of for the taking in Giruvegan. Ashelia Dalmasca, I shall be waiting for you there. Prove to me your worth, prove to me your lust for the nethicite, and join me."

Balthier watched his father disappear, watched his chance at revenge dwindle to nothing before his eyes. Anger and despair settled about his shoulders like a cloak. The anger he would harness, channel into action, but the despair seeped into him, chilling him to the bone.

A light touch on his arm. "Where do we go from here?"

Penelo stood beside him, lending comfort in her soft voice, her ready concern in itself a balm to his battered soul. He had been so sure, so ready to end his long years of torment, to free himself from the chains of his past. Now they clung ever tighter, and he struggled under their stranglehold.

But he was being observed, the rest of them wondering what his reaction would be, how he would handle this newest revelation. He straightened his shoulders, reined in the rage that dictated his actions, faced them.

"Where else? To Giruvegan."

\--

"That thing...Venat, he called it...what was it?"

Balthier pressed his fingers to his eyes, scowling at the question. Despite his professed desire for solitude - he had shut himself up in a room by himself for the entirety of the trip back to Balfonheim, the length of their journey cut in half by the much faster speed of Reddas' own airship - he had been unable to shake Penelo, who had stuck to his side like a burr immediately as they'd disembarked. Since then, he had taken up an unused bedroom in Reddas' massive seaside home, pilfered a bottle of whiskey, and slouched into an armchair before the roaring fire. The other members of their party had wisely left him to brood, but Penelo had been unwilling to do so. Even now she knelt beside his chair.

Anyone else he might've spoken to sharply, might've dismissed out of hand. But not Penelo. She was different. She thought she was helping, in her own way, to coax him out of his dark mood. And he could not snap at her, could not repay her unflagging care with scorn.

"One of the Occuria," he said finally. "One of the Old Gods, legendary weavers of Ivalice's destiny."

Her brows drew together. "Then...he isn't mad, is he?"

"No." Rage boiled over, scorching in its intensity. "He's never been mad. He's always known exactly what he was doing." The pain, the anger, burned him like fire. "He sacrificed Sarema of his own accord." He exploded into motion, a quick jerk of his arm and the glass that had been in his hand exploded into the fireplace, splintering into shards.

"Balthier." She placed her hand upon his arm, a gesture intended to calm, but he jerked away.

"How can you even bear to touch me?" he snarled. "You have seen what he is. _His_ blood flows in my veins; I am _tainted_."

Slowly, deliberately, she laid her hands on either side of his face. "You are not your father," she said. "You are not responsible for his actions."

He laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. He had longed for those words, but he would not - could not - believe them. "Blood will out, dear girl."

"Oh?" She stood, clasping her hands before her. "You must believe Basch to be cut of the same cloth as his brother, then. When do you expect him to betray us? He has already been branded a king-killer, after all."

He scowled. "It's hardly the same thing."

"It's exactly the same thing." She carefully pried the bottle of whiskey from his hand. He relinquished it without a fight; in his current state she would win regardless. "Place the blame where it lies - with your father. Why do you have to keep punishing yourself?"

"Because I could have saved her!" he shouted. She flinched at his tone, and guilt clawed at him. He dragged his hands through his hair, sighing. "I could have saved her. Instead, I left her with him. I am as responsible as he."

"What could you have done, a boy of sixteen," she chided gently. "When he was serving such gods?"

"Something. Anything. Anything but what I did...leaving her to such a cruel fate, fleeing like a coward afterwards. I swore I would protect her, and I failed." He cradled his head in his hands, and felt her hands in his hair, stroking it soothingly.

"Then we will avenge her," she said. "We've all suffered, but none of us need to suffer alone anymore. We're going to see this through to the bitter end."

He lifted his head. "And are you prepared to fight against the gods?"

She shrugged, uncaring. "I've lost so much already; what more have I got to lose?"

"Your _life_ , you foolish child."

A wry smile. "It hasn't been worth so very much anyway."

He thought for a moment what the world would be like were the bright spark of her life extinguished. It would lose all color for him. He might as well languish in the darkness forever.

"Don't value yourself so cheaply," he muttered.

"I could say the same for you," she quipped back, coaxing a reluctant grin from him.

Somehow she had, with her incessant nagging concern, drawn him from the black cloud of despair that had enveloped him. He could never quite be sure how she managed to do it, but she drove away the guilt and pain, surrounded him instead with her empathy, pricked his temper enough to force him into action rather than allowing him to wallow.

He sighed. "What have I done to deserve you, brought down upon my head like a plague?" But the words lacked heat, and she smiled, satisfied that he would rise again despite the harsh blow he had taken.

"We're leaving for Giruvegan in the morning," she said. "Reddas said the Strahl has been repaired. I thought you might like to know."

She turned as if to leave, hesitated, then turned back to face him. And before he could wonder at her intent, she bent down and pressed a cool, chaste kiss to his lips. In the dim firelight he could see her face only in shadows, wished he could read her expression.

"You are nothing like your father," she said fiercely. "I would never have let you touch me if you were."

She made to leave, but he grabbed her wrist, and said, simply, "Stay."


	12. Chapter 12

_Obligatory mature content warning. Proceed with caution._

 

Of course she knew what he was asking. How could she not? And she knew as well that she should refuse him, should shake free of his hand and walk away. It would be the safest, wisest choice. But she thought that, perhaps, a small part of her might actually...love this man. Just a little. Not enough to wear her heart out on him when he left, of course, that would be unforgivably foolish. But enough to recognize the things in him that no one else seemed to be able to see. Enough to occasionally get a glimpse of the man hiding behind the shield of his sarcasm, his ever-present cynicism. He was lonely, wounded, broken, and he needed her, desperately.

And maybe she needed him, too. Because the closest she had ever come to finding peace, to freeing herself from the shackles of her own past, had been in his arms. How, then, could she deny him?

So she pulled free of his grip on her wrist, caught his hand with hers, and laced her fingers through his. A sign that she hadn't merely acquiesced to his request, but had made her choice of her own free will, so that maybe in the morning, when the silent spell of night had been banished by daylight, he might be able to shake off the guilt that would surely plague him. He had not coerced her; he had merely asked and she had given her answer.

A brief moment of silence, of contemplation, maybe of surprise - she thought perhaps he had expected her refusal, had hoped she would have the strength to refuse where he had not the strength to resist. Then his fingers curled around hers, and he drew her down to him, across his lap in the chair. His free hand cupped her cheek, turned her face toward him. His lips brushed her forehead.

"Darling girl," he sighed. "You should have gone."

"I know," she whispered back. "But I couldn't."

"I've nothing to offer you."

"I don't recall having asked for anything." She slid her arm around his shoulders, her hand stroking the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

"No," he acknowledged. "You wouldn't, would you." And he knew that she would not - she never asked, never demanded, never took aught that was not freely given. Instead, she gave with both hands, generously and openly, and expected nothing in return. She bound him not with iron chains of expectation, but with the silken threads of her kindness, her ready affection. And she was not even aware of it.

In his arms she performed an enticing little wiggle, settling more comfortably into his embrace. Then she lay her head upon his shoulder, brushed her lips across the pulse point at his throat. She sighed, her warm breath a teasing caress upon his skin. He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles; in reflex her fingers squeezed his. With his free hand he unlaced the ribbon binding her hair, dropped it heedlessly to the floor, and the fair strands tumbled down over her shoulders, satin soft, cool, and shining like the moon in the firelight. He drew her hand to his chest, pressed it over his heart, turned his head, and kissed her. Just a whisper of a caress, a careful overture. And she welcomed him, her fingernails scraping gently across his chest, up over his shoulder, and finally, tentatively clasping the back of his neck. She was melting against him, her sweet lips parting beneath his, and it was all he could do not to fall upon her like a starving man.

But he wanted to enjoy this, enjoy her. She deserved better than to be handled roughly, pawed at clumsily. She deserved to be cherished. She deserved so much better than him, but he was too much a pirate not to take what she offered.

He brushed her hair over her shoulder, feeling for the bow at her neck, catching up a string and tugging it loose. And she leaned into his kiss, making room for his fingers to slide down her spine in search of the remaining bow. This time she was not a passive participant, not caught up unaware in the force of his desire, swept along helplessly by it. This time she helped him, aided him, thrust the binding fabric away from her body, sank back against his supporting arm, let him look his fill. His fingers traced her smooth shoulder, marveling at the warmth beneath his fingertips, the way the flickering firelight played over her skin, by turns gilding and shadowing. And he bent, brushing his lips across the upper swell of her breast.

A sigh, his or hers, he could no longer be sure. A shudder, definitely hers, and her nipples tightened to taut peaks. Her eyes were closed, her head was thrown back in a glorious arch, exposing the slender column of her throat, and he knew that he would have to get her to the bed - there was simply no way he could do her any justice here, as they were, in the chair.

His knuckles stroked across the downy softness of her cheek; her eyes fluttered open.

"You have no idea how beautiful you are," he murmured.

She gave a jerky, self-conscious shrug, more uncomfortable with his praise than with his eyes on her exposed flesh, said, "I'm not, really." It was too dark to tell, but he imaged she must have blushed. He would never tire of that; he intended to coax out as many of her blushes as he possibly could tonight.

"You are, really." He drew her closer, brushing his lips over cheek, her forehead, her lips. "You glow. I've never seen anyone glow like you do. You make the whole world brighter."

"You don't have to flatter me," she said on a flustered laugh. "I'm already here."

He sighed, shook his head in chagrin. "I am hardly given to empty flattery," he said. "I see I shall simply have to convince you, show you how beautiful you are." He unfurled himself from the chair, lifting her with him, and her arms came around his neck. Three short strides brought him to the side of the bed, and he set her down gently. The covers were cool against her back; the heat of the fire did not reach this far. He stood at the edge beside her, gazing down at her, and the firelight was too dim to read his expression.

As he fumbled with the clasps of his vest, he was somewhat shocked to discover his hands were trembling like a lad's. She was far from the first woman he'd taken to his bed, but his body behaved as though she were...or perhaps as though she would be the last, the one he would never let go of. Insurpassable.

Perhaps because she'd noticed his fumbling, or perhaps because she felt he was taking too long, she rose to her knees, brushing his hands away to perform the task herself. His vest was loose, and then she was ably managing the buttons of his shirt, and finally pushing shirt and vest together off of his shoulders. He dragged his arms out of them, tossing them out of the way. Then, as an afterthough, he strode to the window and jerked the curtains open to admit the radiant moonlight, because that was, he thought, how Penelo ought to be clothed - not in homespun garments, nor even silks and satins, just in the glow of the moon upon her bare skin. As she had been at the hot spring, the night that he had first seen her as she truly was.

And she looked up at him, her legs folded beneath her, with that perfect guileless expression, swathed in the milky moonlight, glowing like a fairy, all ethereal innocence and earthy temptation. Lustrous, pearly skin inviting his hands, silky hair a glorious tumble down her back. Blush pink lips curved in a hesitant, welcoming smile, wide blue eyes the exact color of the summer sky. He cupped her face in his hand, taking a seat beside her, feathering his fingers over the petal-softness of her lips.

"That night on the coast, at the hot spring," he said. "I wanted you then."

Her lashes swept down, hiding her eyes briefly. "I thought you were having a laugh at my expense," she said.

"No. You looked like a siren rising from the depths, and I could never see you in the same way I had before, because you tempted me so." He lowered his head, breathing the words at her ear, "You have tempted me ever since."

A low, husky sound from her throat, shivering as his lips caressed the soft skin beneath her ear. She turned her head, brushing her hair over her shoulder with fingers that trembled to give him better access. "I never meant to."

"I know. That made it worse somehow, that you could so effortlessly tie me into knots, and you didn't even know you were doing it. You didn't know how much I..." but he trailed off, lost in the simple pleasure of touching her, kissing her.

"How much you...?" she prompted, holding onto the conversation by a thread, because she so desperately wanted to know what he had been going to say.

He drew back, green eyes rapt on her own. "Wanted you," he finished. "Wanted this." He pressed her back against the pillows, covering her mouth with his own. And her fingers were in his hair, and her body writhed beneath his, and her legs parted, accepting the fit of his hips between them, the weight of his body on hers. They had been here once before, on the passenger ship to Archadia, only this time there were no secrets left to come between them, the shades of the past vanquished, at least for the moment. This time it was pure and perfect, worshipful hands, impatient bodies, and mutual passion.

His hands spanned her waist, sliding down her body to the gentle flair of her hips, hooking his thumbs beneath the waistband of her pants, easing them off of her, and she lifted to help him, eager to be free of the confining fabric, and then there was nothing to separate his fingers from the warm silk of her skin. She reached for his belt buckle, but he stayed her hands.

"Not just yet, sweet." And at her inquisitive look, he added with a wry grin, "It would be over too soon."

Her small hands rested on his chest, feeling the flex of his muscles beneath her palms, her eyes going sultry and heavy-lidded, and Balthier realized that if she kept touching him like that, looking at him like that, it would all be over anyway. So he lifted her hands, stretching them above her head, wrapping them around the bars of the headboard. The movement arched her body, brought her perfect breasts within a whisper's distance of his lips.

"Keep them there," he commanded, releasing her hands.

She wriggled beneath him. "But -"

He silenced her with a kiss. "For once, darling girl, don't argue. Don't think. Close your eyes. Feel."

Her lips pursed into a petulant pout, but she closed her eyes all the same. Her fingers tightened around the bars and she shifted minutely, settling back against the pillows, waiting, anticipating. And when his touch finally came, fingertips tracing her ribcage, stroking across the softness of her flat stomach, lingering on her hips, he knew she was a siren, for her breath escaped on a throaty moan that shook him to his core, made him weak.

She arched to his touch, the slender length of her body undulating, twisting to his fingers, seeking more pressure, more contact. Her brows drew together in silent protest of his light touch, her teeth worried her full lower lip, but her head fell to the side in surrender. And he smiled, stroked his hands down the satin of her thighs, felt the tremor that coursed through her, reveled in her guarded responses. And he repeated the slow, gentle caress upwards, listening to her rapid breathing, heard her breath hitch, felt her body tremble with tension. When he finally cupped her breasts in his hands, the tension snapped, and she melted beneath him with a breathy cry of anguished desire.

"Balthier, please," she whispered desperately, and her legs curled around his hips, seeking the pressure of his against the most intimate part of her.

His lips quirked; she was so sensitive that the merest brush of his thumbs on her nipples made her gasp, pant with need. "Please, what?" he asked curiously. He wondered if she had any idea what it was she was pleading so prettily for.

Her head thrashed, frustration coloring her tone. "I don't know, just...something." He was tormenting her, killing her with his slow caresses that inflamed but failed to satisfy. And then his hands left her breasts, and she wanted to scream her vexation. But his hands were sliding beneath her back, lifting her, and the hot, damp suction of his mouth was on her breast, and then she nearly screamed her exultation.

Instead her breath left her lungs on a shuddering sigh. Unconsciously she uncurled her fingers from the bars, threaded them through his hair, held him to her. He raised his head; she whimpered, bereft.

"Your hands, Penelo," he said patiently.

"I can't," she said pitifully, "It's not fair; I want to touch you." She needed to feel the warmth of his skin, the ripple of muscle beneath her hands. She needed to grab his hair, clutch his shoulders, steady herself with him, because she was drowning, and if she did not hold on to him, she would go under entirely.

"Later," he said, because his control was a hair's breadth away from snapping entirely, and he could not bear her soft hands on him.

"Now," she insisted. And she opened her eyes, brilliant and resolute, and dragged herself up to meet his lips with her own, giving his lower lip a sharp, wicked nip. His hard-won control fragmented, splintered almost audibly. He groaned, so absorbed in the sweetness of her mouth, the tender strokes of her tongue that it took him a moment to realize that she had worked free his belt buckle and was shoving his trousers over his hips. And then he was helping her, and suddenly, at last, they were skin to skin, and she fit beneath him like she'd been made for him, like they'd been carved from the same block.

He sighed, the delight of feeling the naked length of her trembling body against his at last weighed against regret that he had been unable to wrest control from her, to deny the both of them until he'd stroked, kissed every bit of her, driven her to the brink of fulfillment. He needed her to come away from this satisfied, and for once in his life, he was desperately afraid he would embarrass himself.

"I had wanted this to last," he sighed against her throat. But she wriggled beneath him, instinctively rocking her hips to his. Her legs locked around his hips, and she gasped as she felt him against the heart of her.

"Oh," she whispered, and her fingers clutched his shoulders, eyes going wide with a sudden clarity of understanding.

"Yes, _oh_ ," he mocked gently. He rolled his hips, not enough to enter her, but in the pale moonlight her cheeks flushed vividly. She took a shuddering breath.

"I, um...I understand the mechanics," she muttered. "But I don't really have any, um...practical knowledge." Her fingernails kneaded his shoulders like little claws.

"So I surmised," he said. Another gentle thrust, still not enough pressure, just to allow her to acclimate to the feel of him there, to relax a bit, to anticipate, to learn. She softened beneath him, rediscovering the urgency that had gripped her when his lips brushed her throat, when he bit her there, then soothed her tender flesh with the hot lash of his tongue.

She shivered, sighed, lifted to his touch. And then her body yielded to the pressure of him at her entrance, and she gasped at the alien sensation of him entering her body. He stretched her; she managed a tremulous, shocked breath as he drew her knees up, forcing her thighs wider to admit him. Pressure became pain; he swallowed the tiny cry that escaped her lips as something fragile tore inside of her. And then it was easy; there was only the fullness of him inside her, the sense of completeness that she had never known she was lacking. And she gasped helplessly, because he had invaded and conquered in one smooth motion, because she could feel him in her body, because he had hurt her and soothed her all at once.

It was astonishing; a totally foreign feeling, to be sharing her body with him, to have him be a part of her. He brushed away the few tears she hadn't even noticed she'd shed, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead.

"All right?" The words rumbled from deep in his chest, and she noticed for the first time that his breathing was labored, as if it was costing him a great deal to remain still, to give her time to adjust to him. His jaw was clenched; he looked as though he were in pain, but she didn't see how he could possibly be - it had not been his body that had yielded to the demands of hers.

She nodded, because he seemed to need the reassurance. "It hurt a little, but it's passed." And somehow it suddenly seemed terribly intimate to be speaking while they were joined like this. She shifted beneath him and his eyes flared with intent. His hips drew back, withdrawing, and there was emptiness, and then he surged forward, and she gasped.

"Ohhh." Her head fell back; friction, pressure, heat, the weight of his body over hers, the almost too-tight fit of his body in hers. Pleasure banished pain; a searing pool of desire settled deep in her belly. Instinctual motion; her hips rose to meet his, her arms curled around his neck. Whatever she had expected, it had not been this, the smooth strokes from the inside, unfurling an answering warmth that stole through her, centering on the place they were joined, growing wilder and less controlled.

"Yes," he hissed through clenched teeth. He was trying desperately to stave off climax, to keep his thrusts measured and even, to let her learn the feel of him, to grow accustomed to this, but she had made that tiny little breath of a sigh, and he had felt it in every cell of his body. That pure sound of amazement, of awe. Like she'd been waiting all her life for this one perfect moment.

And it was perfect, he realized. Because no one had ever driven him to this level of frenzied madness before; he had never before even come close to losing control. He had lost all finesse with her, had hurt her in the heat of his need, and was dangerously close to total abandonment. She was the only one who had ever brought out the wildness in him, the only one who pushed him past his natural limits. She alone could reduce him to primal instinct.

She was so hot, so wet, so perfect. He wanted to watch her, to see her face in the throes, but he was never going to last; she'd flayed him to ribbons already. Her legs flexed around him; she made tiny mewling sounds near his ear. He broke, shattered. His resolve crumbled; he thrust sharply. She arched her back, gasped, clenched her fists in his hair. She had liked that; she writhed beneath him, clinging desperately, all sensual abandon, a creature of fire, of need, of burning, all-consuming passion. He drove furiously for fulfillment, praying that she would reach it as well, wondering if ever the mortal had existed who could satisfy the wild, sensual goddess in his arms. One last driving thrust, he shuddered, spent himself within her. She cried out, and he felt her inner muscles contracting around him rhythmically, felt her clench her fists in his hair...felt her body surge against his in a taut, trembling arch, and then slowly go lax, replete and satiated. Exhausted, he laid his head upon her breasts, reveling in the sweet aftershocks of pleasure that shook her, listening with immense satisfaction to the rapid flutter of her heartbeat, her ragged breathing.

Good. He had gotten at least this one thing right.

\--

An hour or so later, after a well-deserved nap, Penelo awoke as Balthier rolled her onto her stomach.

She tried to twist around, but his hand was on her back, holding her down, stilling her. "What are you doing?" she whispered.

His husky laugh sent a shiver of awareness up her spine - raw, primitive, the sound of a man unleashed from the bonds of polite civility. His hands grasped hers, stretching them above her head, wrapping them around the iron bars at the headboard. His breath was warm, stirring the hair near her ear.

"We're going to try this again." He nipped at her earlobe, eliciting a shocked gasp, a shameful shiver of delight. "Don't let go of the bars."

And when he was through with her, when she was weak in the aftermath of his insatiable attentions, when exhaustion at last overtook her and she could not manage the strength even to curl up against him, when he had at last kissed and stroked every inch of her as he had intended, she acknowledged that he had, indeed, made her feel beautiful.


	13. Chapter 13

A knock at the door pierced through the heavy veil of sleep, and Balthier struggled towards consciousness. He'd slept harder, deeper than he could ever remember, and was less than pleased at the theft of what was - for the first time in recent memory - a restful night of dreamless, uninterrupted sleep, unplagued by nightmares.

There was a pleasant weight on his chest beneath the covers; he tried for a stretch, but a sound of annoyance, muffled by the heavy coverlet, issued forth. He peeled back the blankets, revealing Penelo's mussed blond hair, sleep-flushed face. She was cocooned against him, draped half over him. Her head was pillowed on his chest, and she turned her face away in protest of the sudden intrusion of daylight, snuggling deeper into the covers. Her leg slid along his, and he suppressed a groan. But she merely sighed, settling back into sleep.

Another sharp knock. "Balthier? Are you awake? It's almost time to go." Vaan's voice. Then, a hesitant, thoughtful, "And we can't find Penelo."

This had gone all wrong. He had never passed the entire night with a woman. He had always left well before morning. For once he was entirely at a loss, not at all certain how he was to handle this new situation. Just as he was wondering whether or not he had remembered to engage the lock the night before, the doorknob twisted, the door pushed open an inch.

"Open that door and you're a dead man," Balthier snarled immediately, drawing the covers over Penelo's head once more, protectively. At the sharp bite of his voice, he felt the length of Penelo's body go rigid against him.

At once the door snapped shut again. "Just wanted to make sure you were awake," Vaan said through the door. "But get a move on, okay?"

Penelo pushed away from him, clutching the blankets around her as she sat up. One bare leg was revealed; she looked so delightfully rumpled and disheveled that he wanted to tunnel his hands in her hair, bring her mouth to his, and damn the consequences. But she was rubbing the sleep from her eyes, her expression fading from one of sleepy, unconscious sensuality to dawning horror.

"Vaan? Was that Vaan?" she whispered.

"Afraid so. You've been discovered missing."

"No. Oh, no." She scrambled off the bed, collecting her scattered clothing. "I've got to get dressed. I've got to get out of here."

She threw off the blanket, and in her haste to quit the room, she was wonderfully naked for a few glorious moments as she stumbled into her clothing. She was in such a hurry that each article of clothing seemed to go on as if by accident; she tripped into her boots, fumbled with the laces of her top. Raked her fingers through her disordered hair to work out the tangles, managed to pull it up and bind it with the ribbon he'd carelessly discarded last night.

"I'm going out the window," she said.

"Don't be daft," he said. "It's the third floor -"

She held out a hand to stop him. "I'm not going out the door. _I_ don't want to be caught here any more than _you_ want me to be caught here," she said, keeping her voice low in case anyone was lurking in the hallway outside. "Besides, there's a drainpipe. I can just climb down and come in the front and say I've been out."

"You don't want to be caught here? What the hell do you mean by that?" His rising indignation caught him off guard. But _he_ did the leaving; he was not _left_. It simply was not done. Or at least, it hadn't ever been done before.

She fixed him with a vaguely patronizing look. "I mean that I don't want to have anyone else sticking their noses in my business. And besides, Vaan would take a swing at you in some misguided attempt to defend my honor or something." A heavy sigh. "I don't want to cause a scene."

She didn't want to cause a scene. She wanted to keep this a secret. He supposed he ought to be grateful; she was logical and unemotional about it. Instead he was irritated with her for thinking they'd done something she ought to be ashamed of. He didn't particularly relish being her dirty little secret.

He found himself wishing that she could have been like the others that had come before her, simpering, pleading, crying prettily in an attempt to hold his attention. If she had, he could have respected her less, admired her less. He would know how to manage her, how to disengage. But she was determined to buck convention, throwing his own lines at him. _I don't want to cause a scene_. How was he supposed to claim control over this situation if she treated it like it didn't exist? He scrubbed his face with his hands, utterly baffled.

And she was throwing open the window, sticking her head outside. She thrust her leg out, straddling the sill as she grabbed for the drainpipe. She looked back to him. "Well...it's been fun."

And she slipped out, disappearing from view. He pressed his fingers to his temples, his head ached trying to unravel the knots of confusion she'd twisted him into. Fun? It had been fun? Bloody hell. What had just happened?

\--

Balthier had missed the Strahl. Missed her sleek lines, her elegance, her easy maneuvering, her speed. The cool leather wrapping her yoke warmed to his fingers, he relished the purr of her engines, the steady vibration, the way the pilot's seat molded to him, embracing him. She had been his home for the past six years, he had learned every part of her, and he alone had mastered the piloting of her. The scrapped prototype and the scrapped son - they had been made for each other.

The presence of his other companions had somewhat diminished his joy at being reunited with her - he had experienced a measure of prickly irritation, the vessel that was effectively his inner sanctum overrun, invaded by this ragtag band he currently had the misfortune to call compatriots. Only Fran's presence did not grate on his nerves, she having been his partner and companion these last six years, traveling with him. And perhaps she had sensed his rising agitation with the cluster of people crowding his deck, for she instructed them that they should go and make themselves comfortable elsewhere while she and Balthier set their course.

The cause for Balthier's pique dispersed, and he been able to relax more comfortably back in the seat, stretching his long legs. Fran slid into the chair beside him, bringing up the navigation panel.

"The Feywood reveals the path to Giruvegan," she said. "It is told of in an ancient song of my people, but the city has long since gone the way of myths and legends. The way is obscurred by the roiling mists, and not even Viera legends stretch back far enough to guess at what the city will hold for us."

"Retribution, if we are lucky," Balthier said darkly.

Fran fell silent for a few moments, plugging coordinates into the navigation system, working silently to chart a course into the Feywood. The ship lifted lightly off the ground, Balthier's deft handling guiding her up into the bright cornflower blue sky without so much as a stutter.

"You would do well to take caution with Penelo," Fran said abruptly. At the soft rebuke, Balthier's brows jerked skyward, surprise etched upon his face. He had never known Fran to pry into his private life; at least she never had before. It was to be a day of firsts, apparently. She studied him dispassionately, then explained her comment. "She said she had been out this morning, but...the smell of you lingered on her. I do not believe anyone else suspects; she guarded her thoughts and her words well." The words held a measure of respect for Penelo's apparent discretion.

Balthier schooled his features into an expression of indifference; he did not bother to deny the unspoken charge Fran had laid upon him, because it would be an insult to Fran to pretend she had been mistaken. "You needn't fear on that account," he said. "The woman has not been born from whom I could not walk away."

The wry twist of her lips did not escape him. "From this one, I think you had better run."

\--

Night had fallen, and Penelo prowled the darkened, empty corridor aimlessly. She had been unable to sleep through Vaan's customary, constant snoring. When they had camped in the wilderness, the sound had been muffled by the nighttime noises of the wild, weakened by the wide, open spaces that snatched it away into the darkness. Now, trapped as they were in a tiny room, the sound reverberated off the walls, coalescing into a maddening roar of constant, vibrating noise. She had twitched, thrashed, covered her ears with her hands, prodded Vaan in the back with her foot, and eventually given up altogether, grabbing up a blanket and quitting the room.

Finally she decided to return to the deck, just to be free of the steady rumble of sound that followed her down the corridor. At least the deck contained a number of seats upholstered with leather that had been worn to butter-softness. It might not hold quite the appeal of a bed, but then there were precious few of those to go around; the Strahl was not a passenger ship, after all.

The deck lighting was dim, but the glow of the console provided some measure of visibility - enough for her to see Balthier, stretched out in indolent repose, his feet slung over the flat top of the console, his arms folded behind his head, eyes closed. She paused in the doorway, uncertain. She should leave while she could, and simply do her best not to strangle Vaan in his sleep.

Before she could turn to leave, Balthier lifted a hand, beckoning her inside the room.

"Unable to sleep?" he inquired.

She shuffled forward sulkily; having somehow attracted his notice, she could hardly leave without looking like the worst sort of coward. How had he even known? He hadn't even opened his eyes. She dropped into the chair beside him, sprawling out gracelessly, hooking her knees over the arm - the closest she could come to actually reclining.

"Vaan was snoring," she said petulantly, her voice slightly muffled by the blanket she had tangled around herself. "It was either leave the room or smother him."

He snickered. "Well, then, by all means, make yourself comfortable."

She shifted in the seat. "I thought you'd be asleep by now. Doesn't the Strahl have autopilot?"

"She's flying under it now. I merely desired a bit of peace and quiet in which to enjoy her again. It has been somewhat less than peaceful today, what with four additional passengers."

A chance to make her escape. "I'll go," she said at once, "I don't want to bother you."

But he stayed her with a hand on the top of her head, stroking her soft hair.

"You're no bother," he said, somewhat startled to discover it was the truth. He was no less at peace with her here than he had been without her. Her presence merely made him...content. She lent a warmth to the room. Like a roaring fire on a cold, wintery night, it was as if he could toast his fingers in the glow of her.

She subsided into the protective shield of the blanket without further protest. She didn't appear to be exactly comfortable, but then the deck seats had hardly been designed to be slept in. Her eyes closed, sooty lashes fanning her cheeks.

He didn't want her to fall asleep yet, to deprive him of her company. "Tell me something about yourself," he said.

Her eyes opened again, eyebrows winging up in surprise, suspicion. "Why?"

Because he wanted to listen to the soft, sweet sound of her voice. Because he wanted to learn her, to understand her. He shrugged. "Curiosity. Something to pass the time."

She sat silent, thinking. Finally she returned with, "When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a dancer."

He could well imagine that; her a dancer, with her lithe, graceful body. "Not anymore?"

She shook her head, sighing. "Too much time spent in one place. I don't want to live like that anymore." She turned her head, gazing out the window at the black sky bursting with glinting stars. "How could I go back, after this?"

Her reverant voice, the aching longing that filled it, struck a chord in him. He knew exactly how she felt, for he had felt it, too. He found himself reaching out to touch her bright hair, withdrew his hand just in time as she turned to him.

"Your turn," she said.

"My turn?"

"I told you something about me," she said. "Now it's your turn." She wiggled a little in her seat; he noticed her bare feet poking out from beneath the blanket. Of course she wouldn't sleep in shoes...but with her bare feet visible, and the rest of her body concealed by the blanket, he was helpless not to imagine her naked beneath it. As she had been this morning. So deliciously warm and sleepy, the blanket parting in places to reveal hints of smooth, fair skin. He shifted uncomfortably, aware of her eyes on him.

"When I was a child, I wanted to be an astronomer," he admitted.

"Not a pirate?" Her interest piqued, she eased forward.

"No. I more or less just fell into pirating when I left Archadia, took to it rather well, all things considered. But I had no taste for it as a child. I was...rather straight-laced. An avid follower of the rules. Boring." A placid little automaton made in his father's image. "Stealing the Strahl was really the first foot I had ever set out of line. But I'd had so many years of proper behavior to make up for, so I simply kept it up for a time. And after that...well, I had developed a reputation that required maintaining."

She tried to imagine what Balthier would have been like then; the child he had described was so incongruous to the man he'd become. She could not quite picture him without that mischievous streak of wickedness. She would have liked to imagine that even as a child, he would have had a touch of the pirate in him. But she recalled the harsh words his father had flung at him in Archades, the scorn he'd shown his son.

"Your father...it must have hurt you, what he said to you in Archades."

He shrugged. "He approves of no vices excepting his own, and I ceased seeking his approval long ago," he said easily. "I have long since rid myself of any lingering filial piety I might once have had."

"He was so...cold." Her voice was low, a reflective murmur. "I don't understand that kind of parent. How could he speak to you like that? How could he treat his own child that way? After all the terrible things he's done, how could he presume to judge you?"

"He was never particularly demonstrative," Balthier said. "I learned the only way to please him was to conform to his every expectation. It was a doomed venture from the start." He sighed, said in a contemplative tone, "Despite what he thinks of me, I'd far rather be a pirate than a monster of his variety. Better a bounty on my head than innocent blood on my hands."

She curled her body into the seat, snuggling into the blankets. Her arms she folded over the arm of the chair and then rested her head upon them. Her eyes closed, and she yawned. "I think it must've taken a lot of courage to do what you did," she murmured drowsily. "Maybe you don't always - or even usually - stay within the law, but at least you stand by your convictions and do what you think is right. I sort of...admire that about you."

Balthier felt a curious little flutter in his chest, did his best not to gawk at her. She admired him? Women fawned over him, flattered him, flirted with him. They did not admire him. How did she constantly manage to disarm him, to flout his expectations of her? He liked to think that he knew how women behaved, but she broke the mold of her gender. And he realized - he liked that, too, that she was unpredictable. She was never boring. She made him furious, she frustrated him, vexed him endlessly. But she also made him laugh, made him forget his tainted past. Made him want to draw her into his arms, hold her against him, protect her from all that might seek to do her harm.

She made him want to keep her. A troubling thought, that.

She could not be comfortable, wedged into the chair as she was. He thought of the previous night, how late it had been before he had let her rest, how she had been splayed across the bed in a boneless heap, panting with exertion even as she slid immediately into a deep, exhausted slumber. How they had been roused by Vaan early this morning, after a scant few hours of rest.

"You need to sleep," he said.

Her lips pursed in annoyance. "I'm trying."

"In a bed, Penelo."

"They're all taken," she said petulantly.

"Not all of them. There is one left. Mine."

She released a throaty trill of laughter as if he'd made a grand joke.

"I assure you my offer was sincere." He leaned forward, unable to keep the devilish smirk off of his face. "I happen to know first hand that you've had precious little sleep. And why."

That scarlet flush that he liked so very much spread across her cheeks, and she squirmed, clearly flustered.

"You ought to feel honored, really," he continued. "You'd be the first, other than myself, to set foot there. But as we are such intimate friends, now, I suppose you should have the honor."

"You're just trying to embarrass me," she muttered, exasperated.

"Suit yourself. You're welcome to stay here, of course. We can...talk." He purred the word, and her stomach did a flip. He was toying with her, like a cat with a mouse caught under its paw. She didn't know how to play these sorts of games, had no interest in them. Had she been naive to think that nothing would come of the night before, that they would fall easily into their former roles, and never speak of it again?

"Talk about what?" she whispered with a sense of impending doom, unable to stop it, unable to do more than watch it happen.

He leaned back in the chair, the lazy, self-satisfied pose almost offensive in its apparent nonchalance.

"Do you know how I knew you were here when you came onto the deck?" he asked.

Wordlessly, she shook her head.

"I could smell you. Lavender. It's maddening, really. I shall never smell it again without thinking of you." His voice had dropped an octave, rumbling in his chest. "It shall always remind me of your hair in my hands, your lips on mine, your -"

"All right! I'll take your bed!" She sprang from the chair, resisting the urge to pat her cool hands on her burning cheeks, keenly aware that the rest of their party slept close by.

The blanket had dropped when she had bolted out of her seat, and his face was level with her bare stomach, his gaze affixed to the dip of her navel, remembering the feel of her hips cupped in his hands, the sweet sounds she had made as he had explored that enchanting spot with his tongue.

He slowly rose from his own chair, and she followed him down the narrow corridor until he stopped before the last door on the left, inserted a key into the lock, and pushed the door open. He stepped back, motioned for her to enter.

She went inside hesitantly, feeling vaguely out of place in this room with such masculine furnishings. It was more spartan than she had expected, housing sturdy furniture with strong lines made of dark mahogany wood, done up entirely in varying shades of unrelieved brown, with nary a frill or bit of lace on the bedclothes to soften it. It was just as tidy as she had anticipated, as fastidious as he was.

She turned to face him; he lingered just inside the room, leaning against the door frame, arms folded across his chest. "Well...good night," she murmured.

He straightened, turned, closed the door, engaged the lock. Turned back to face her with that knowing smirk. Her pulse lept; the impulse rose to back away from him like a frightened rabbit. A coward's reaction; she shoved it away, grappled desperately for words.

"I thought...you were giving me your bed for the night..." Gods, was that tremulous squeak really her voice?

"Did I say that?" A patently false innocent tone; he studied his fingernails casually. "You must have misunderstood."

Irritation flared, hot and immediate. "You _let_ me misunderstand."

"Darling girl, I'm hardly a mind reader. How was I to know what you were thinking?" His hands were on the clasps of his vest. He shucked it off, hung it over a bed post, moved on to the buttons of his shirt. "I merely offered you a comfortable bed for the night. I assure you, I don't snore."

She knew that already, of course. "What, exactly, are you playing at here?"

He removed the shirt, folding it neatly and placing it atop the dresser. "So suspicious," he mocked gently. He moved toward her, but she held her ground, challenging him. His hands cupped her stiff shoulders, drew her close. His lips bussed the top of her head. Her little fists were clenched at her sides, her pursed lips lending her piquant face a fractious expression.

" _Balthier_."

A long-suffering sigh. "As it happens, I truly intended only to sleep. It is my fault, after all, that you have had so little. And if you did not blush so charmingly, perhaps I would not feel the urge to tease you so." He stepped away, padding around the bed to the far side. "Be about it, then, we know not what waits for us in Giruvegan; best to be well-rested for what lies ahead."

She hesitated; he was gratified that he had unbalanced her just as she had unbalanced him. Like for like; that was good.

" _Just_ sleep?"

A cavalier, indulgent look. "Dear girl, if I thought you were in any condition, you would already have been well and thoroughly seduced. I am not unfamiliar with the workings of a woman's body, and I was, perhaps, a bit overzealous in my attentions last evening. For now, you are safe from any amorous intent."

She was going to die of embarrassment. She was going to simply slip straight through the floor and die of it. But instead of teasing her further, he merely flicked off the light and climbed under the covers. She heard the cool rustle of the bedclothes and stood silently by the side of the bed, torn. Stay or go? He had manipulated her into his room, but he was not forcing her to stay. She could leave if she wished, and he could not stop her, but...did she truly want to? In the darkness that enshrouded the room, she could not see him, but rather sense him, waiting, anticipating her answer. What manner of man invited a girl to share his bed to sleep?

Balthier bided his time; waiting for Penelo to come to a decision, which she seemed in no hurry to do. For his part, he was interested in testing a theory - Penelo had banished the nightmares last night. He wanted to know if she would do it again, if her very presence would put an end to the sleeplessness that had so plagued him these past years. And perhaps a small part of him - a very small part - enjoyed the thought of her in his bed, under his sheets, upon his pillow. He wondered if perhaps in the morning his pillows would still carry the scent of her hair.

At length, he grew tired of waiting.

She did not start or jerk away when his hand closed upon her wrist, gently pulling her down to sit on the bed. She did not protest when his long, elegant fingers pulled the ribbon from her hair, untied the laces of her top, eased her out of her pants, drew the covers over her, settled her against his chest, absently stroked her hair. The blankets were cool over her; his chest was warm beneath her cheek. She sighed. Closed her eyes. Slept.


	14. Chapter 14

Rather than finding Cid in Giruvegan, they had instead found the Occuria. His hopes of retribution thwarted, Balthier had fallen into a rage so pure and dark that not even Fran would venture near. And no one had protested when he abandoned the party, slinking off into the distance to vent his anger in private.

And as the others crowded around Ashe, asking probing questions regarding whether or not it was her intention to use the Treaty-Blade given her by the Occuria to cut new shards from the Sun Cryst and wage war on Archadia, Penelo slipped silently away. She knew that she ought not follow him - the prickle of gooseflesh that chased over her as he had passed had warned her of his dangerous mood. And yet, somehow, she could not stay away. He drew her like a moth to a flame, and, she thought regretfully, much like the moth, her inability to restrain herself where he was concerned would likely lead to singeing her wings.

But even knowing the inevitability of it all...she went just the same. Because she had to, because he was hurt, because he needed someone, and there was no one else brave enough - foolish enough - to intrude upon his solitude when he was in such a state. She had set her course already, and she would follow it through, wherever it lead, regardless of the danger it posed.

He had bypassed the Strahl entirely, but the mists swirled where he had passed through, and she trailed along in his wake, her heart wrenching in her chest as the sounds of his loosed rage first drifted to her ears as mere echoes, and eventually grew louder as she neared until they rumbled along the crumbling walls of the ancient city in a roar of boundless suffering.

The mists gathered thick here and it conjured up illusions of the past, preying upon the unwary hearts of whosoever stumbled upon it. She could well imagine what Balthier might even now be finding himself faced with. He would know it for an illusion, surely, she thought, but in the depths of his misery would he even care?

She could see him, now, finally, through the veil of mist, and she drew to a halt for a tense moment, silently observing. He crouched on the ground, hilt of his sword clutched tightly in one hand, the other hand on the holstered gun at his hip, chest heaving, scouring the roiling mists before him. And then he erupted into motion, slashing out viciously, determinedly, at whatever illusion the mists had wrought to torture him. And again her heart squeezed to see that broken expression, a man so battered by life that he took refuge in fighting the only thing he currently could - the mere illusion of his father. It was an unwinnable battle, of course, but still she watched as he soldiered onward for long minutes, until at last he stumbled, the sword clattering upon the ground.

Balthier sank to his knees in defeat - always, always defeated - tilted his head back, and shouted his outrage to the indifferent skies.

And then Penelo was there, emerging from the mists, and he wondered for a moment whether she, too, was an illusion called forth to torment him. But then she was laying her hands upon his shoulders, and he knew she was not.

Ruthlessly he shoved her away. He could not face her now, not when pain seethed in his gut, when despair and fury clawed at his soul, stripped away all pretenses of civility and turned him primal and cruel. He could not stomach her gentle hands upon him, steadying him, for she leashed the rage he so desperately needed to set free from its shackles.

"Go." The word was a vindictive snarl, a warning. "Now."

"No." A short, immediate refusal. And she touched his cheek, cradling his face as he had once cradled hers, the softness of her fingers such a light, delicate caress. Soothing, restraining, tempering. He resisted the urge to turn his face to her hand, take the comfort she offered.

Again he threw her off. "Go!" It was bellow of unsatisfied bloodlust, intended to send her skittering away in fear.

She shook her head, expression grave, an aching look of resignation, determination. She reached for him again, falling to her knees to be on a level with him, threading her fingers through his hair, leaning forward to brush her lips to his forehead, a featherlight whisper against his skin. He had intended to shake her off again, but against his will, his fingers clung, held, snatched her up against him. And then he was pulling her down to him, dragging her into his lap. He clutched at her as though she alone could anchor him. He breathed raggedly, and with each violent indrawn breath he pulled her calming lavender scent into his lungs, with each exhalation a tiny bit more of his intemperate bitterness faded.

By degrees he felt the hysteria leave him, subsiding to a manageable level, one at which he would not be goaded into hacking at spectres like a man possessed. By degrees his jaw unclenched, his muscles unlocked, the madness that had held him fast in its unshakable grip abated. By degrees he became aware of her cool fingers stroking his face, her warm breath on his shoulder.

"He was never here. He never meant to be here." A derisive, self-castigating sound burst from his throat. "He has made a fool of me once again. He laid out his trap and I flew into it just as he intended, just like the lackwit he thinks me. I should have seen it at once, he has always manipulated me thus."

"You couldn't have known," she soothed.

"Yes, damn you, I should have known," he said forcefully. "I have always been the scapegrace to him, no better than I should to be. He delights in casting my failures up before me; he had planned this from the very start. The better to force me to dance to his tune."

Penelo silently cursed the man who had so wounded his son, who had sacrificed his family on the altar of Glory, who had reduced the man holding her to such all-encompassing anguish.

Disconsolate, Balthier dropped his head to her shoulder, closing his eyes. He could only absorb the warmth of her skin, breath in and out mechanically. He could not even manage to weep for the ruin of his plans for revenge. A terrible melancholy had seized him, sunk its icy claws into his flesh, rent his determination into tatters, tearing him down into pieces too small for thought, for hope, too small to feel anything but the cut of the bitter fragments of sorrow and shame that overwhelmed him.

And because his pain went too deep for tears, Penelo wept for him.

\--

In the city of Giruvegan, the mists were too thick to get a clear view of the sky, and so Penelo did not know how much time had passed. The crumbling stone beneath her cheek was cool, the roughness of it catching the fine strands of her hair. And still she lay, silent and still beside Balthier, unwilling to move or speak and risk breaking the fragile peace that had settled over him.

His breathing was deep and even, purposeful, as if he had to force his lungs into a rhythm lest they forget the maneuver on their own. He rested on his back, one arm stretched over his stomach, the opposite hand pressed to his forehead as though he thought to shove the memories that assailed him from his mind.

The mist clung to him in a way it did not to her, sweeping across his face in lazy tendrils, whirling to catch at the remnants of blinding rage and pain that were even now seeping away from him. But those stray thoughts he marshaled, locking them away so that the mist could not play upon them to summon shades of his past.

And he was aware of Penelo beside him, her very presence a focusing force, a lighthouse on a stormy sea. He could set his sights on her, and her light would guide him to safety, to a calm in the storm where the riotous turmoil around him could not touch him, where he could rest his weary body upon the warm sands and recover in peace until he was once more prepared to charge back out into the fray.

Of their own accord, his fingers searched out her hair, slipped into the cool silk, gathered a handful as though he could tether himself to her, let her lead him out of the darkness. He had come, already, to depend upon these quiet moments in which she drove away the demons, waited patiently, unassumingly, for him to come back into himself. Her faith in his ability to do so was baffling, aggravating. Even as he resisted her presumption, he was loath to disappoint her.

"Why did you stay?" he asked, finally.

And she knew, as she always seemed to know, exactly to what he was referring. "Why did you ask me to?"

A part of him must know the answer, but his thoughts were so tangled still that he could not bring himself to search it out. So many things had been locked away, he knew not how to uncover them without letting slip the darker parts, the past that had blended so seamlessly with the present, a daunting jumble of confused emotions. Dangerous, to go in search of things he could not control.

But she did not press her question. Instead she lifted herself gracefully from the cool stone floor, and her hair slid from his fingers without catching, as fine and weightless as the mists surrounding them. She stood and offered her hand, helping him to his feet. He caught up his sword in his free hand, sheathing it in a smooth, decisive motion - with her hand in his, the illusions wrought from mist held no sway over him. She banished the darkness, and it departed in fear, retreating to the far reaches from her vibrant glow.

"We're going across the Ridorana Cataract," she said. "Fran thinks the Sun Cryst is there, in the Pharos Lighthouse." Her voice was soft, cool, the pleasant, gentle flow of water over rock. It neither ordered nor pleaded; it merely impressed upon him the necessity of their journey, carried him along in its tides, until at last he fought the current like a drowning man, aghast at how easily he had acquiesced to her words, how effortlessly she could cajole him to follow where she lead.

"You ought to have left me," he said, and his fingers went lax in hers. But she picked up the slack, tightening her grip, unwilling to let him founder when she had gotten it into her mind to save him from himself.

"How could I?" Her voice was low, her breath did not so much as stir the whorls of mist that enshrouded them. "How could I? You needed me."

"No." An instinctive refusal; he had never needed anyone, had never wanted to rely on anyone, had never known anyone in whom he could place his trust in without reservation. And again, "No." The denial of all things he could not yet face, could not countenance for the truth, rejected with every fiber of his being. Drowning, clawing desperately for the shore, swept under again by the cruel, merciless current.

"Yes." She whirled to face him, but there was no mockery in her face, no judgment, not even satisfaction, only a bemused acceptance of the fact. "It could have been Fran, or Ashe. Either of them would have been better suited. But it wasn't. You needed me." And she turned and continued to pull him back toward the Strahl, the threads of fate urging them ever closer to the inevitable conclusion, the final battle in the war that had raged already for too many years.

And the inconstant wind carried the echo of her words back to his ears, so faint he had to strain to hear them.

"And maybe I needed you, too."

\--

Penelo was glad to see the last of Giruvegan, the city that teemed with the spectres of the lost souls who had once called it home. Now the hidden refuge of the old gods, it filled her with a sense of foreboding, of profound hopelessness. Should Ashe choose to take up the mantle of Dynast-King that the Occuria had laid down before her, she feared for the future of Ivalice, under the constant manipulation of the gods.

But Ashe was in no hurry to share her intentions, and in her faraway look Penelo sensed the seething hunger for retribution that burned in her. And while she could not find fault with it, with the desire to give like for like, the desire to see Archadia humbled as it had in turn humbled so many proud kingdoms before, she could not imagine that the path toward peace would come through ruin. If Ashe chose the power of the Sun Cryst and carved her own shards from it, she feared that history would repeat its wretched twists and once more plunge Ivalice into war.

Penelo slipped her hand into her pocket, closing her fingers around Balthier's ring. He had not asked for the return of it, and neither had she seen fit to offer it back to him, and so she held it now like a talisman to drive away the unease that gripped her. The possible futures stretched precariously before her, so fragile and delicate. At any moment, the futures that spelled peace might be wiped away forever in favor of violence and vengeance. And she could only go where the major players would decide to be lead.

A cup of steaming cider was thrust beneath her nose, and she jerked in surprise. She took Fran's offering, sinking deeper into her seat as Fran settled near her.

"I must thank you," Fran said. "For seeking him out."

"Why didn't you?" Penelo asked, curious. Why, then, if they had been partners these last six years, did even Fran leave him to his own devices, leave him to fight his demons alone?

"I am not so privileged as that," came the easy reply. "Few are those would would dare to intrude upon him. He would not welcome my interference."

He had not welcomed Penelo's interference, either, precisely. It would be more truthful to say that she was, perhaps, the only one who was not threatened by the lash of his anger. Maybe the only one who had been allowed to see the hurt at the heart of it...perhaps the one who understood him with the visceral recognition of a kindred spirit. The thought both warmed and confused her; why had he permitted her to venture where even Fran dared not trespass? Disconcerted, she cast her thoughts back to their current dilemma.

"What do you think we will find there...in the Pharos?" Penelo needed to hear someone else's counsel, needed some reassurance that they were on the right path, that the coldness, the shiver of impending disaster she felt was merely the lingering effects of Giruvegan.

"The Viera are untroubled by such things as wars between the Humes." Her face was bland, expressionless. "The Wood is everlasting, and we are unaffected by the powerful emotions that grip your kind and propel you into endless conflict. Whatever the outcome, it is none of our affair."

Penelo subsided into the refuge of silence, sipping her cider pensively. Hardly the answer she would have hoped for.

Fran studied her passively for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was for Penelo's ears only. "If the princess should seek the nethicite, the power of the Sun Cryst, I believe that the taking of it shall not be so simple a task. If the Occuria know of its location, so, too, will the rogue god Venat. So, too, will Cid." A brief hesitation, as though she wondered if she ventured where she should not. "Should the threads of destiny pull in this direction, he may have need of you."

And then she rose, with a curious expression, as though she were unaccustomed to saying such things, uncomfortable with such plain speaking, and left the deck for parts unknown, leaving Penelo to wonder at her strange choice of words.

\--

None of them had slept through the long journey; rather they had intermittently paced, brooded, sat in solemn silence, none daring to voice aloud the doubts that hovered, ever-present. A tense hush had invaded the ship, and none were eager to break it, even as their destination loomed closer.

The sun crept inexorably over the horizon, changing the black waters far beneath them into a shifting cerulean blue. At length, even the waters failed, plunging into the depths of the Ridorana Cataract. Penelo had the uncomfortable sensation of vertigo; sky above and nothing but endless dark below, into which she felt as though they might fall at any moment.

Finally, as if summoned by the singular thought at the forefront of each mind, land broke through the endless black beneath them in jagged edges and perilous cliffs. The Pharos lighthouse was rather a misnomer, for the dark stone monstrosity with its skyward-reaching towers more closely resembled a fortress. Its spires pierced through the clouds, and the great length of it perched forbiddingly upon the tallest cliff, bordered on either side by the steep, plummeting waterfalls that poured into the Ridorana Cataract that stretched, unfathomed, below.

"I can feel it." Ashe was the first to speak, the low, awed thrum of her voice shattering the stillness. "The stone, the Sun Cryst. It beckons to me, like a song in my blood."

And perhaps it was, for the Occuria had imbued her with their dubious blessing - the chosen of the gods to forge a new path for all of Ivalice, to conquer and destroy as she willed.

"I beg your highness, consider -" But Basch's voice faded away at Ashe's sharp glance; the choice was not his to make, the course his to follow but not to chart.

The Strahl touched down lightly upon the earth, settling amidst the rocky, crumbling stone courtyard of the ancient citadel. Here, long before, according to legend, had the Dynast-King Raithwall, Ashe's distant ancestor, once journeyed to cut of the Sun Cryst his own shards. Here, since time immemorial, countless other long-forgotten Dynast-Kings had likely also traveled so to do the same, to take of the Sun Cryst and harness its power for the creation of their own kingdoms.

And Penelo shuddered, grateful that this moment did not rest upon her shoulders, hoping instead that Ashe would have the strength to refuse the inconceivable power offered by the gods to instead let Ivalice shape its own destiny.

As they disembarked, the only sound was the furious rush of water over cliffs. No wind stirred, no animals or insects moved or breathed in this place to lend life to the ageless stone around them. Despite the bright sunlight beating down, the fortress felt like a tomb in its eerie silence, the oppressive weight of the expectations of capricious gods winding tight the tension that gripped them.

Penelo shaded her eyes, peering up at the jutting spires, and suddenly there was a bright flash of light, piercing and sharp. No guiding light for ships was that, she realized - rather it was the guiding light for kings.

Ashe drew in a reverent breath. "The Sun Cryst." Her fingers curled as though it were already in her hands. She drifted forward a step as if drawn by an invisible hand, at the mercy of the stone's pull.

"Nethicite." The dark, scathing word was a hiss of disgust. "You know well where that path would lead, princess. You have seen it already." Balthier was closing up the Strahl's dock, the first Penelo had seen of him since they had parted ways after she had lead him back from the crumbling halls of Giruvegan.

He had once more gathered up the mask of apathy he so frequently donned, and only the dregs of his revulsion for the nethicite Ashe sought slipped through.

"It is mine," Ashe said fiercely. "Mine to do with as I please; the Occuria have left its care in my hands. To use or destroy, _it - is - my - choice._ "

"Then better you should make the right one, and recall the faults of those who have come before you. Are you so pure of heart, then, that you would trust yourself with it, trust yourself with the shaping of all of Ivalice? Would you keep us all caught fast in the clutches of perpetually scheming gods? You are not the only one who would seek to harness its power; consider the devastation that has resulted from the wielding of such a weapon. Consider, too, that the longer we tarry, the nearer draw our enemies who would also seek the stone." His tone was cool, disinterested, but still waters ran deep with menacing undercurrents.

Urged on by the reminder that they were not the only ones who sought the stone on these distant shores, Ashe started forward towards the Pharos lighthouse, and the others trailed along in the wake of her determined strides.

Penelo lagged, instead keeping pace with Balthier, who seemed not to see her and instead kept his eyes focused ahead on the towering fortress. And she realized that his chance at revenge rested with Ashe, for unless she chose to destroy the stone, the very source of all nethicite's power, Cid would still have control of the Dusk Shard, the protection of the rogue god Venat. To strike him down they would have to render him powerless, and that would come only if Ashe used the Treaty-Blade not to carve new shards for herself but to crush the stone into oblivion.

"She'll do what needs to be done," she found herself telling him, and more - actually believing her words. "I think she wants peace more than she wants revenge. When she has the possibilities of both in her hands, I can only see her choosing peace."

"The Occuria would never have chosen her if she did not have the same darkness in her, the same lust for power as her predecessors," he responded in a lackluster tone. "She comes from a long line of conqueror-kings. That hunger for power is in her blood, bred into it over hundreds of years. Her forebearers could not resist its lure; how could you expect her to do so?"

"Because Ashe is better than that," she snapped, appalled and furious at his indifference. "If you let your own worries drag you down and consume you, then we are as good as lost already. We may as well quit here, because how will you ever summon the courage to confront Cid when you can't even muster a little faith in us? Everyone has darkness in them, but only the weak fall to it. I would never have thought you weak, Balthier."

He stopped abruptly, his face a study in shock, and she wondered if, for once, she had gone too far, stretched him past his breaking point. But after a moment's silence, in which he examined her flushed, angry face, astoundingly he laughed, a husky sound of genuine amusement. A wisp of a crooked smile curled his lips.

And his hands clasped one of hers, raising it to his lips, where he pressed a gentle kiss upon her palm. Then he curled her fingers around his kiss as if to keep it safe, relinquishing her hand once more.

"I yield," he said, and his fingers stroked her cheek. "And so I leave my faith in your hands."


	15. Chapter 15

Strong hands cupped her shoulders, stroking down her arms, chasing away the chill of the night air that lingered. Gentle fingers brushed aside her hair, baring the back of her neck to the graze of his lips. And then his arms twined around her, easing her into the press of his warm body against her back.

"Come back to bed," he whispered at her ear.

He had woken only a few minutes prior, bereft of the comforting warmth of Penelo's body against his, and had followed the stream of moonlight pouring across his bed to where she stood, staring sightlessly out of the window into the velvety black sky. She was half-draped in a sheet, but from such a short distance he could see the gooseflesh that had risen on her arms. But chilled or no, still she had stood, swaying with the gentle motions of the Strahl in flight.

And he wondered if it had all been too much for her, everything that had filled the daylight hours. The fear, even unto the very last moment, when Ashe had defiantly turned from the path of ruin she might have sought and instead thrust the Treaty-Blade into the heart of the Sun Cryst, forever breaking the hold of the Occuria on Ivalice's destiny to forge a new path created not from nethicite but from the will of the people. The bittersweet triumph, when Cid's rogue god Venat had deserted him, and, abandoned by both god and nethicite, he had fallen at last beneath their blades and arrows. The weighty knowledge that tomorrow they would face Vayne, would free Ivalice from the stranglehold of his tyranny at last.

Today he had discovered that she had firmly vanquished any lingering doubts he might have had that they would succeed. He had believed because she believed, and he had entrusted all of his faith to her. Today, that faith had carried him straight through when he might have faltered, when he had been tempted to let his bitterness - and his father - get the better of him once again. Instead he had rallied, let her hold faith for him, and they had ultimately defeated both scourges, nethicite and Cid. At last, his ghosts had been laid to rest. At last, he could put his past firmly behind him, carry on without guilt or shame.

And he - at this, he felt the barest twinge of regret, or as much regret as he could muster without actually being sorry for his actions - fresh from the battle, he had carried her off, like a conquering hero absconding with the spoils of war, to his room on the Strahl, unmindful of her gasp of embarrassed horror, the slackjawed stares of the rest of their companions. And there he had kept her well into the night, coaxing her from outraged fury born of mortification to blazing passion until she had cried halt in her exhaustion and turned her face into his shoulder to sleep.

"What can you be thinking of, darling girl?" he murmured, when his first request had elicited no response.

At this, her shoulders rose and fell in an elegant shrug. "Larsa," she said wistfully. "He was kind to me. And tomorrow we go to kill his brother. He always wanted to believe the best of Vayne. I wonder how he must be feeling, now."

An irrational surge of - what, jealousy? - took hold of him, but with some effort he shook it off. The boy was all of twelve, after all. Still, he had shown a marked interest in Penelo to which Balthier had taken an immediate and exceptional dislike. But the boy would one day be a man, and what would Penelo think of his kindness then, did he show it to her? Indeed, after Vayne's demise, Larsa would be the lone member of his house left alive, would take up the crown and rule Archadia as emperor in his brother's stead. But perhaps for Penelo, that would be a point against rather than for him - she had not liked being a prisoner within the walls of Rabanastre, surely she would like even less the further restrictions royalty must needs live under. No, she would never countenance the little princeling's suit, even should he offer it when he came of age.

And he wondered why he had even bothered to concern himself with such a thing. Their time together was drawing to a close, their objective all but accomplished. When Vayne fell, when the balance of power had been shifted once more in their favor, they would be at loose ends once again, their temporary partnership dissolved. He would go back to seeking out new skies and treasures with Fran, and she would see the princess safely back to Rabanastre, possibly even help her to gather the shards of her kingdom and piece it back into an approximation of order.

He wanted to keep her.

That disturbing thought again. He swatted it away, but it buzzed like a gnat inside his head. One did not keep people, regardless of the silkiness of their hair, the softness of their lips. He was painfully aware that this night might well be the very last. And he would not waste it mired in thoughts that had no business obsessing him.

"Come back to bed," he said again, finally. And when she at last turned to face him, he could see his own thoughts reflected in her eyes. And if her lips trembled a bit as they touched his, well, he pretended he had not noticed.

\--

A tentative knock at the door. The pillows beneath Penelo's head entreated her to ignore it, to sink back into the comforting embrace of sleep just a little while longer. But sunlight crept into the window, and, having already been roused, she could no longer shut out the intrustion of harsh daylight into her comfortable haven. With a heavy sigh, she mustered her strength and forced herself upright.

Balthier made an annoyed sound of discontentment in his sleep, his eyebrows jerking together as she removed herself from the circle of his arms. Just now in sleep, he looked like a petulant child, a boy whose favorite toy had been snatched from his arms before he was ready to relinquish it, and it drew a reluctant smile from her. She smoothed away the frown with the light caress of her fingertips, and, as if placated by her soothing touch, he subsided back into a restful sleep once again.

A sense of finality, of closure settled over her. Their last day had dawned and their last shred of privacy had been stripped away. She had made her peace with it; she would allow herself no backward glances. Already she had lived too much in the past, given too much of her thoughts over to things that might have been. It was time, now, to look to the future, and that future could never have included him. A pang of loss pierced her heart, not for the man, she told herself, but for the deep, smooth voice whispering 'darling girl' to her in the darkness which she would never hear again.

Silently she gathered her clothing, donning it mechanically, and finally she opened the door, slipping through and closing it behind her before anyone lingering outside could glance inside.

Of course, it would be Vaan waiting there for her. He leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, brows arched so high that they gave his whole face the appearance of a question mark.

"So...you wanna tell me what that was all about, then?" he asked.

And she realized: she didn't really care what anyone else thought anymore. What a wonderful concept. She could not suppress the smile that rose to her lips.

"No," she said succinctly, and turned down the hall.

"Penelo..."

She held up a hand. "Not a word, Vaan." Her tone was light but firm, and did not invite further argument.

He followed silently as she made herself a cup of tea, took it with her to the deck, and sat down sipping it. She gave no indication that she either noticed or cared about the curious looks she was receiving from the rest of their party, who had already gathered.

Vaan thought there was something different about her, a confidence, a self-possession, a sort of cool poise that she had lacked before. She neither blushed nor stammered, she merely sat quietly, her lowered lashes shielding both eyes and thoughts, content to let them stew in their own unvoiced inquiries.

"I just..." Vaan hesitated. "I just don't want to see you get hurt."

"I won't." A calm, serene reply. "It's over, anyway." She sighed softly as she settled back into her chair. "It's over."

\--

Balthier supposed he ought to be grateful that she'd vacated his bedroom before he had woken, thus saving him any awkwardness, but instead he was rather...annoyed. It was a baffling state of affairs. Again she has left him, and it was a blow to his dignity for which he had not been prepared.

He fumbled into his clothing, still irritated with her defection. Someone was going to have to have a talk with that girl, explain protocol or something. Of course, that someone would have to be him. And, too, he would have to find a way to gently explain to her that it would be foolish of her to build dreams on what had passed between them, that he would soon be off for grander adventures.

But as he swept onto the deck and saw her there in her chair, he could see clearly that she was already aware. She was coolly composed; she did not start as he entered, there was no welcoming warmth in her face, in her eyes. She had already erected walls, detached herself, cast him and any affection for him which might have lingered out of her mind. She raised a stranger's face to his; there was nothing in it to suggest that she had any feeling for him at all.

He ought to be grateful.

He was furious.

How dared she push him from her thoughts so easily? Maddening little wench that she was, how dared she sit there looking so prim and proper, so thoroughly unruffled, as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth? How had she been able to go from sweet, hot passion in his bed, to this calm, tranquil miss sipping at tea?

She sipped; he seethed.

And their other companions swirled into motion around him, somehow unaware of the pique of temper Balthier had worked himself into. Basch and Ashe skirted around him, dropping into chairs. Penelo bent her head to listen to something Vaan was telling her, then tilted back her head and laughed. Balthier could hear nothing over the pounding of blood in his ears.

Fran walked by on her way to the navigation console, snapping her bow subtly against the back of his leg as she passed to gain his attention, to jerk him from his thoughts.

"To the Bahamut," she said. "We are expected." She nodded to his empty seat, and he sank into it, shaking off the irrational emotions that gripped him.

"Oh?" He took over command of the ship, guiding her towards their destination. "By whom?" Cool, just as she was. Unaffected. Unchanged.

"Larsa Solidor," she replied. "He has heard of what passed in the Pharos. He would aid us." She busied herself with minute adjustments to their course. "She has handled herself well, that one," she said in a low voice, jerking her head subtly to indicate Penelo, who was still engaged in conversation with Vaan. "Anyone would think she did not care to keep you."

He took refuge in the arrogance which had become second nature. "Ah, but one may only keep what one has caught. Sour grapes, and all that."

Fran did not smile, did not look at him. "She caught you weeks ago," she said. "Be thankful then, that she has cast you back."

"No." This, in an answering low tone. He reeled, grappling for stability, familiarity. "No. I have never been caught." He could never be caught. It was simply not a circumstance that he was willing to permit.

Fran slanted him a patient, pitying look. He resented it, for he had not been subjected to it for many a year, not since she had first plucked him from his troubles and trained him up from a sapling. That look was the expression of someone older, wiser, someone who knew better than he did. It carried with it the weight of her experience, and he had always respected it before, because even if he did not wish to acknowledge it, she had always been correct.

"From almost the very first," she murmured. "So blind, you Humes. Wasting your short lives in denial and fear."

His back stiffened ramrod straight at this slight, but otherwise he was unwilling to dignify it with a response. To argue further - that would be tantamount to lending creedence to Fran's ridiculous supposition.

Instead he schooled his features into a semblance of nonchalance, pressing the Strahl for every bit of speed that he could wring from her, carrying them ever closer to the Bahamut, to the end.

\--

_There had been no time to think, no time to pause and regroup. As soon as they had docked at the Bahamut, they had been undersiege, even as they themselves had laid siege to the sky fortress. They had forged ahead resolutely, striking down the endless flow of Imperial soldiers that had streamed after them, striking down even Basch's own brother, Judge Gabranth, the right hand of Vayne, the true murderer of Dalmasca's late king, the slayer of Vaan's brother, Reks._

Penelo slid down against the door of Balthier's bedroom aboard the Strahl, collapsing into a heap on the cold floor. She thought it must be cold, anyway. She could not feel it. Nothing was as cold as she. She was ice, numbed clear through.

_They had met with Larsa, resolution too old and severe for one so young etched upon his face. He had known what must be done, had finally seen the truth of his brother's madness, accepted that the lust for power in Vayne would never be abated, would grow unchecked unless he were stopped. What it had cost him to lend his assistance, to guide them into the final battle, to take his stand against his own flesh and blood, they would never know._

Not numb enough. Not anymore. Shock and disbelief were rolling into pain, burning, blinding, tearing. She pulled her knees to her chest, looped her arms around them, locked her fingers. They trembled anyway. The tremors had started there, in her frozen fingers, crawling up her arms, through her chest, down her legs, until finally she was a shuddering mess, shaking so severely she felt battered. Her breath hitched. She gasped, drawing air deeply into her lungs. Gasped again, and again, heavy, wheezing breaths.

_Vayne had ceased to be a man, had lost any shreds of humanity to which he might once have been able to lay claim. He had lashed out in his rage even at Larsa, too far gone, too little man left in him to even recognize his younger brother, to have a care for the damage he had wrought. His eyes had glowed with madness, with pure unadulterated malice, and finally it had been at Larsa's strident order that they had attacked._

She could not catch her breath, she had lost it and she was desperately afraid that she would never regain it again. She uncurled herself in creaky jerks, crawling by inches across the floor. Somehow she found the strength to haul herself up by the bedpost, grabbing at it, digging her nails into the hard wood. Her legs shook like jelly, threatening to collapse at any moment; how they supported her she did not know.

_And Vayne had risen yet again, a strange, unearthly glow emitting from his skin from tiny cracks, chips in the shell of what once had been man and now was both less and more. And they had seen the shade of the Occuria Venat in him, melded with him, filling in the parts that he had cast off, building him anew with bits and pieces of the massive fortress that was slowly, surely going to ruin around them. Both awed and horrified, they had been forced to leap once more into the battle, the deciding battle between man and god, for the future of all of Ivalice._

Somehow she had made it to the bed, crumpled onto the mattress. Fastidious Balthier had neglected to make up the bed this morning, and she was somehow grateful, because she could almost feel that at any moment he would return. She closed her eyes. Like he'd stepped out. Like he'd soon be back.

_Vayne had fallen, and Venat had fallen with him, and as battered and exhausted as they were, they had taken a moment, just one moment, to savor the glorious victory, the sweetness of freedom in the air. And then the fortress had lurched, and they'd scrambled for perch, casting their eyes about incredulously. And they knew - it was coming down. That massive, hulking fortress was going to plummet from the sky._

Her fingers drifted up the rumpled covers, sliding over soft cool sheets finally to press into the pillows, into the indentation still visible, still revealed beneath the pressure of her fingers, of where his head had laid mere hours ago. Her heart caught on a desperate wish that it had not yet cooled, that it might've retained even the tiniest bit of the warmth of his body.

_They had made it - barely - back to the Strahl, but she had been locked, unable to fly from the Bahamut that listed so unstably in the sky. And through the Strahl's windows they had seen with gripping horror the sprawling city of Rabanastre stretched out before them, and knew at once that the Bahamut's trajectory would mean crashing straight into it._

She turned her face into the sheets, curling into herself, muscles contracting involuntarily. As if, by reducing herself, she might also be able to reduce the anguish. She wished to be numb again, because surely feeling nothing would be better than this. At any moment she might explode into tiny fragments of agony. At any moment, she might simply curl up so tightly that she would disappear altogether. If she could simply banish all feeling until the end of time...

_And then, a voice, crackling over the radio._

_"Vaan, the minute she can move, you fly the Strahl out, like I taught you. I'll expect you to take good care of her."_

_At the staticy sound of Balthier's voice, Penelo had jerked in alarm to realize that neither Fran nor Balthier had made it onto the Strahl with them. She had frozen in complete shock, abject terror. Her mind rebelled absolutely against this unexpected turn of events, retreating to a cold, silent space within herself where grim reality could not reach._

_Ashe had grabbed the radio from Vaan, shouting into it._

_"What are you doing? Get out of there!"_

_A rueful chuckle. "Someone's got to fly this thing away from the city. Not to worry, we've nearly got her."_

_But they had known, they had all known. Even did they manage to somehow steer the Sky Fortress away - a bleak enough proposition in itself - there was no time, no time at all, for the two of them to escape. They would go down with it._

As if of their own accord, her fingers slipped into her pocket, brushed his ring that rested there still, paused. Finally they closed around it, drawing it out, clenching it tightly in her fist. A talisman that had protected her, but had failed him. She ought to have given it back. But then, what would be left of him? A harsh sob burst from her throat. He had given her his faith. He had been so, so wrong.

_The silence had been deafening, it rang in their ears. And they had all looked to Penelo's white, pinched face, and then averted their eyes, unable to bear the desolation they had witnessed upon it._

_The radio had crackled once more into life, and this time his voice had been serious. "Princess. You will care for her." It had not been a request. It had been the last order of a man who knew he faced death._

_And Ashe had mustered her courage and looked straight at Penelo, understanding immediately Balthier's meaning. Her voice had been the barest whisper of sound, a solemn pledge to the man who had given so much, who would pay a price too dear. "I will. Of course. I will."_

_And Penelo had made just one sound, a high, keening wail of grief. She could not stay; she could not bear witness to this, or she would break._

But she had broken anyway. She had crumbled to pieces immediately, she had shattered into mere slivers as soon as she had backed away from the deck. She had held off the inevitable far too long already, and the storm would overtake her at any moment.

Only the second time in years that she had cried, but this time there was no one to pick up the pieces, no one to hold her together. No one to weather the storm for her, with her.

She had been such a fool to pretend an indifference she hadn't felt. Such a fool to think that she could love him only a little. He had never been content with an inch when he thought he could get away with mile. She had known she could not keep him, but she had been so foolish to think that he would not keep her.

She could have lived, picked herself up, moved on with just the knowledge that he was out there, somewhere. She could have imagined him laughing, soaring through the skies with Fran at his side. She could have wasted a few idle moments here and there wondering about him, wishing him well. He had never been hers, not really. But he had belonged to Ivalice, and she could have been satisfied just sharing the same sky, the same world. She could have been happy simply knowing that they lived beneath the same moon and sun, watched the same stars.

She could have been happy knowing he _lived._

The world had changed for her in an instant, cast into shades of grey, a perpetual pallor that could never be lifted. She was lost. And he was lost to her, to everyone. All that was left of him were memories and his namesake star in the western sky.

She turned her face into his pillow and cried.


	16. Chapter 16

PART II

Royal city of Rabanastre, Dalmasca  
One year later

Rabanastre had changed so much in the space of a year that it was nearly unrecognizable. Ashe had indeed pulled together the rent fabric of her nation, had taken her time carefully patching it up again, and the kingdom had thrived and prospered, becoming a beacon of hope, a shining example for all of Ivalice to follow.

Even the fall of the Bahamut had done some good for the kingdom - Balthier and Fran had successfully steered it away from the city instead to crash a short distance away. The impact had forced it deep into the ground, cracking the crust of the earth and bringing a hidden spring of water to the surface. So it, too, had revitalized the area, forming a large lake and softening the harsh desert climes of the region into something more temperate. Wildlife returned, drawn by the lure of budding greenery and fresh, clean water. Flowers - which had been a rarity in this region prior to the fall of the Bahamut - now bloomed freely, wantonly, in such lush profusion that even the massive harvesting that they had undergone in preparation for the queen's coronation had hardly put a dent in their numbers.

The city was rife with color and life once again. Diplomatic relations with Archadia had been reestablished, and Ashe and Larsa had presented a front united in peace to their respective kingdoms, thoroughly quelling any further rumors regarding war and conflict. Ashe was currently acting as a mentor of sorts to Larsa in matters of state. Larsa, who had only recently celebrated his thirteenth birthday, was thankful to be able to call the new queen a friend and ally. As a younger son, he had had no expectations of ruling, but under Ashe's guidance, he was taking to it rather ably.

Balthier had not meant, precisely, to return to the city on coronation day. However he had never been one to thumb his nose at an opportunity that presented itself, and this particular day was a riot of excited furor, a constant thrum of confusion and commotion as the city prepared, finally, to greet Ashelia Dalmasca as their crowned Queen Regnant. It would be a simple enough task to slip in - he would never be recognized amidst the chaos - and liberate the airship that he had missed so this past year.

Or at least he had intended to do so. Until certain eager whispers had drifted to his ears, and he knew he would have to somehow witness the ceremony.

It seemed Ashe was not the only one being so honored on this day, for while she would be officially instated, she had planned an addition to the ceremony, a celebration of the anniversary of Dalmasca's freedom and also those who had fought alongside her to bring it about.

And so he tucked away the information he'd gleaned from his discreet inquiries regarding the location of the Strahl and had instead gone in search of the palace. The noise grew to cacophonous levels as he approached, and he appreciated for a moment the renewed beauty of the city. No longer downtrodden and humbled, these people flourished.

The dais rose above the marble steps leading to the palace, and he saw at once what he had been looking for. Not merely Ashe gazing out over her adoring public, no - Larsa, with Basch at his side stood there, too, and Vaan, and...Penelo.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized that he had been holding. She was there, she was well, she was beautiful still. Her hair had been artfully curled into glossy, perfect ringlets, tumbling over her shoulders and framing her face, saved from total wildness by a few pins which kept the curls tamed. A wreath of orange blossoms crowned her hair, interspersed with a few sprigs of lavender for color. She was clothed in a silky gown of lightest blush, the bodice gathered just under her breasts and then cascading to her feet in graceful, simple lines. Her hands were clasped demurely before her, eyes downcast, listening in respectful silence to Ashe's speech.

So beautiful, so elegant, so...utterly wrong. He frowned. There was almost a brittleness about her; that brilliant glow that she had had about her when last he'd seen her was dimmed, subdued. What had happened in the past year?

He should have left then. He should have merely requisitioned the Strahl and gone on his way. He should never have given into the temptation to check up on them. On her. He had tried to tell himself that he merely wanted to assure himself of her safety. But already his hands were curling with the desire to slide into her hair, grab fistfuls of those perfect, tamed curls, and rumple them into a sensuous tangle of wild waves.

Or something ridiculous like that.

He edged closer, slipping between clusters of people in the hopes of getting close enough to hear without the excited chatter of the townspeople drowning out the speech. Close enough to get a better look. Close enough to see her face clearly, to see if that brittleness was mirrored in her eyes.

But the crowd grew too thick, bodies pressed together, sandwiched so closely that he could not pass. Ashe drew Penelo to the front of the dais and though he could not hear, he could see Penelo's mouth flatten into a thin line. And then Ashe was lifting something from a cushion, a dainty filigreed diadem. Compared to her own exquisitely ornate crown of state, it was modest, but he thought perhaps it was intended to be symbolic. As Ashe set the diadem on Penelo's head, tucking it safely into her hair just above the wreath of flowers, a thunderous roar of approval shuddered through the crowd, flowing from the front of the crowd to the back in a great cresting wave of sound.

Well, well. It seemed Ashe must've made a lady out of the former street urchin.

The grand wonder of it all was that no one else seemed to be able to see how terribly wretched Penelo found this prospect. Ashe was smiling benevolently as she leaned down to press a kiss of peace to Penelo's forehead, but Penelo was utterly stiff, her expression frozen in what might've passed for surprise but he knew instead for horror. How was it that no one else had realized how very uncomfortable she was, how unhappy?

Finally Penelo was allowed to slink back to her former position as Ashe called Vaan to come towards her, and no one else seemed to notice that Penelo had not contented herself with merely standing in the background but even now was edging carefully away until she was fully out of sight. The slowly-setting sun had helpfully provided a haven of shadows into which she might slip and disappear unseen, and Balthier knew her too well to think she would stay around for the conclusion of the ceremony.

Another jubilant roar shook through the crowd; Balthier had been too intent upon watching Penelo's careful retreat to pay attention to what was happening. But it seemed now that the ceremony was drawing to a close; the crowd slowly began to disperse. He, too, had to make haste if he wanted to escape without being spotted; he could hide in a thick crowd, but his camouflage was rapidly disappearing.

He spent the next hour or so searching the city for the warehouse that he had it on good authority contained his airship. The city had changed so much in the last year that he could not rely upon his memory to navigate through the maze of streets. Much to his chagrin, he was finally forced to seek directions from a shopkeeper or two, but eventually he stumbled upon the warehouse.

The door was unlocked, and he slipped inside with half a mind to track down Vaan after all and give him a stern lecture over his lack of care. And then his irritation grew to ire when he realized that the warehouse was...vacant. The Strahl, his beloved airship, was gone. Except for a few chairs clustered around a small table, there was nothing - the warehouse was totally deserted. And he would not be leaving without some kind of explanation. So he dropped into a chair and settled in to wait.

He did not have to wait long. Only a few minutes had passed before the door opened once again, and Balthier rose to his feet.

Vaan, too, had been arrested by the vacant warehouse, so much so that he jumped when Balthier cleared his throat to catch his attention, and then stared in frozen shock as if he was looking at a ghost.

"What," Balthier demanded in clipped tones, "have you done with my ship?"

Vaan seemed to shake himself free of the stupor that had claimed him. His body jerked spasmodically forward, his jaw tightening as he approached. Before Balthier quite knew what exactly was happening, Vaan hauled back one of his clenched fists and slammed it into Balthier's jaw.

"That's for letting us think you were dead," he fairly shouted. "For letting Penelo think you were dead." But even as he spat the words, the anger seemed to drain out of him entirely, and his shoulders fell. He dropped into a chair with a heavy sigh.

"Hell of a day," he muttered, dragging his hands through his hair. "Ashe'll skin me alive me for skipping out on her party."

Balthier worked his injured jaw gingerly. "My airship," he repeated.

Vaan narrowed his eyes. "Oh, no. You owe us an explanation. So you can sit your sorry ass down and damn well give one."

Vaan's speech was an interesting mix of aristocratic and street cant, and Balthier looked him over curiously. Gone were the worn, lower class garments he'd sported a year before. Instead he'd been stuffed into the garb of the gentry, silks and fine, supple leathers. Under Balthier's intense scrutiny, he flushed and slunk down further in his chair, clearly uncomfortable to be caught in such finery.

"Ashe has been forcing us into etiquette lessons," he muttered by way of explanation. "It didn't take so well with me."

"You don't say." A bland, deadpanned response.

Vaan glared. "Do you have any idea what you've put us through?" he asked. "With the way it fell, we couldn't...we couldn't search the Bahamut for your bodies. It's impenetrable, and too close to the city to risk blowing it open."

Vaan gestured to the chair opposite him, and Balthier surprised himself by taking a seat. He had a feeling Vaan was going to impart some interesting information regarding the happenings of the past year.

"It's become a shrine, the Bahamut," Vaan said. "Penelo goes there sometimes. Often, actually. She says she goes there to think, that it's quiet there and she needs to get away from the city noise." He gave a bitter laugh. "Damn you, Balthier, she goes there to mourn."

Balthier was not goaded into an untoward reaction, he was hardly given to sharing his thoughts with others. "A waste of time, that. Even if I'd died."

And Vaan was furious again. "You don't even care! You don't even care what it did to her." He broke off abruptly, as if he were afraid of what he might say. He took a moment to collect himself, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing heavily through his nose, his hands clenching and unclenching as if debating the merits of another swift jab to Balthier's jaw. Finally he calmed himself enough to continue with his story. "She didn't speak. Not a word, not for almost two months. She just...couldn't. She'd open her mouth, and nothing would come out. Not so much as a squeak. After a while, she just sort of...stopped trying."

A wave of concern assailed Balthier, but he managed to keep it from showing on his face, schooling his features into a carefully neutral expression. "Was she seen by a physician?" he inquired.

"Of course she was. Loads of them. In and out of the palace for weeks. It was all in her head, they said. But they had this look about them, like they thought she was insane or something. She stopped coming out of her room after a while. Wouldn't let anybody in. Couldn't bear for anyone to see her, to pity her." Vaan sighed, closed his eyes. "When she did finally come out, she was...different." He waved his hand in a vague motion. "I don't know how to explain it. She was just..."

"Brittle?" Balthier suggested.

"Gods, yes, that's it. That's exactly it. Brittle." A humorless laugh. "She started talking again, finally, but it was like she was out of practice. Whispers. Pieces of sentences. It took a while before she got it back to normal. But this whole time, she's just been...I don't know. Pretending. Waiting, maybe. She only took part in Ashe's etiquette lessons because she said it gave her something to do, something to focus on."

"Where is she now?"

Vaan rolled his eyes. "Probably taking the Strahl out for a spin. She does that from time to time, says she's keeping her in flying condition. She won't let anyone else take her out," he said acidly. "She skipped out of the party earlier than I did, even. Was Ashe ever in a temper. It was supposed to be a presentation party or something ridiculous like that. D'you see this?" He held aloft a golden amulet that hung from a velvet ribbon around his neck. "She made me a lord. Apparently I've got properties and responsibilities now." He appeared no happier about it than Penelo had seemed.

"Ahhh. So the etiquette lessons were to train you up to your new exalted positions."

Another heavy sigh. "Ashe means well," he acknowledged. "And she's taken care of all of us. Penelo especially, like she promised. But it's not exactly the sort of life we wanted." He leaned back in his chair. "Your turn," he said. "You owe us an explanation."

But before he could speak, before he had even decided if he was going to speak, the door flew open and in strode Ashe, accompanied by two guards.

"Vaan, I'll have you know I have deserted my own party to come in search of you and Penelo, and I want to know..." her voice trailed off and she stopped abruptly as her eyes lit on Balthier.

"Your Majesty," he acknowledged somewhat flippantly.

Her mouth went slack as she grappled desperately for words, a plethora of emotions crossing her face, varying from shock to relief before eventually settling on anger. Her face flushed a rather unbecoming shade of red, her hands curling into fists. Finally, absent a more appropriate response, she stalked forward and slapped him soundly across the face. No meager blow, that; she put the whole weight of her body behind the strike, and the force of it jerked Balthier's head to the side.

"How dare you," she hissed. "How dare you be..."

"Alive?" he prompted. Damn, but these people were an odd, violent bunch. Some things about them he had not missed.

She drew back her hand again, but Vaan stopped her. "Save it, Ashe, I've already done it."

"Don't be impertinent," she snapped. "I have a title; I'll thank you to use it."

"My apologies, your majesty." Vaan stood and swept a remarkably insolent, practiced bow - a mocking gesture of insincere subservience. Ashe returned his insolence with a quelling glare.

"If we might hurry this along..."

Ashe whirled on Balthier, eyes blazing. "I will get to you in a moment," she hissed, and turned back to Vaan. "Penelo left a note for me," she said. "What is the meaning of this?"

Balthier glanced over to read the tersely-worded note Vaan had accepted from Ashe.

Queen Ashe,

No, thank you.

Penelo

Vaan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, handing the note back to Ashe. "It means that Penelo doesn't want to be a lady," he said. "And it means," he said, casting a rueful look at Balthier, "that the Strahl is long gone."

Balthier surged to his feet. "Well, then, I've got to find her."

Vaan clamped a hand on Balthier's shoulder, staying him when he would have left. "Which 'her'?" he demanded. "Penelo, or the Strahl?"

Somehow in the space of a year, Vaan had grown from wayward, volatile child into confident man. He was not posturing; he was posing a very serious question, and he had no intention of letting Balthier out of his sight until it was answered to his satisfaction. Balthier had heard the question for what it was, understood the challenge in it immediately. Which is more important? Which one are you truly going after?

"Both, I should expect, considering that they are together," Ashe said in some confusion, for she did not sense the undercurrents of tension between the two men.

Balthier had a grudging respect for Vaan's dedication. And he decided...well, he had already revealed himself to both Vaan and Ashe. His cover had already been blown all to hell. He might as well cast it aside truly. He had gone without the Strahl for a full year already, and...he wanted to see how Penelo truly fared, to see the face that he was certain she would hide from everyone but him. He wanted to see her again, he wanted...things for which he had no name.

"Penelo," he admitted finally. And by degrees, Vaan's fingers unclenched from his arm.

"Good," Vaan replied. "Go, then."

"What?" Ashe cried. "Surely you're not thinking of letting him -" But Vaan fixed her with a stare so intense that even the redoubtable queen quailed beneath it.

"Check at the Bahamut," Vaan said. "First place I'd look, if I were you."

\--

The lake surrounding the Bahamut was a deep, fathomless blue. The raucous noise of the celebrating city only breached the peace of this place as shreds of sound carried by the breeze, almost as if it did not dare to disturb the reverent silence. It had fallen to ruin, the Bahamut. Its rings jutted from the center of the lake, covered in grasses, flowers, and ivy that climbed relentlessly over it, lending the fortress a somewhat softened, melancholy appearance.

A bridge stretched from the far shore to the center of the island formed by the fallen fortress, its marble arches rising like waves from the still waters beneath. He picked his way around the lake towards the bridge, towards the sunken ship that was to have been his tomb. That Penelo still believed to be his tomb. A sliver of guilt stabbed him, and he wondered at it. He had experienced it many times in the past year, whenever his thoughts had strayed to her. He had expected the sharp sting of it to fade, but it never had. Instead it merely grew worse over time, like an untreated illness.

He had also suffered a touch more loneliness than he'd been accustomed to, as if he'd lost something precious. Sometimes he woke in the night to find himself reaching out as if in search of that precious thing he'd lost, but it had always eluded him. Sometimes he awoke, swearing that he had caught the scent of lavender in the air, but it always faded away too quickly.

Beneath the luminous moon, the marble bridge glowed as if it had been polished to a gleaming shine. Dusk had given way to nightfall, and the stars crept out, one by one, twinkling coldly in the black sky. A brisk wind swept over the water, sending ripples trembling across the surface of the lake, ruffling through Balthier's hair as he crossed the bridge silently. The marble gave way to grasses beneath his feet; the surface of the island dipping and cresting in tiny hills and valleys. It was beautiful, in a somber sort of way. He could easily imagine Penelo coming here, tucking herself into one of the many nooks and crannies this place, wild and lush with plant life, had provided, finding peace in the creeping vines and blooming flowers.

He had made almost a full circuit of the island when something crunched beneath his foot, and the fragrant scent of lavender and orange blossoms assailed him. He'd used vines and footholds to climb his way over the less accessible parts of the island and had, unwittingly, discovered Penelo's hiding place - he'd stepped right upon the wreath of flowers she had worn earlier in the day. He knelt down, digging into the small recess that had been hidden amongst the vines. It had been lined with a cloth, protecting the things it contained, but was hidden out of sight - he had found it purely through luck...or perhaps through fate.

She'd left not just her wreath, but her diadem as well. And an assortment of other items, like a child might leave in tribute. Coins, tiny knicknacks, a silver key, jewelry - both costume and precious - a yellowed handful of newspaper clippings, bits of lace, buttons, hair ribbons, polished stones, embroidered handkerchiefs. And he realized at once that she had been bringing bits of her life here for the past year, as if...as if she thought to share it with him. A strange tightening sensation gripped his chest.

But where was she? Clearly she had been here today, not too very long ago if she had left her wreath and diadem. But he had not seen the Strahl anywhere near; he had not crossed paths with her. He clasped the diadem in his hands, staring down at it intently. It was so delicate, a fragile bit of nonsense, all twisting silver curlicues and precious gems, attached to a silver comb to anchor it into her hair.

She had not wanted to be a lady, of course. She had looked so horrified up there on that dais, so trapped and helpless. Of course she would cast off such a hated symbol. Nonetheless he slipped it into his pocket, unable to let it languish away in a secret place, a token left for a dead man who had failed, in point of fact, to be dead.

So she had escaped, then. She had cast off her life in Rabanastre, unwilling to subject herself any further to the responsibilities thrust upon her. But where had she taken herself off to? His eyes searched the sky as if he might find her there, but saw only the stars, sparkling in silent mockery of his plight.

Except, perhaps...

He cast his gaze westward. And there it was, shining like a beacon, winking at him, beckoning him to follow. He fancied it might've shone a bit more brightly than the stars surrounding it.

The Pirate Balthier. His star. She had told him, once, so long ago now, that she would follow the stars to the ends of the earth, and when he'd told her to pick just one, she had by some incredible coincidence chosen his. He had tried to dissuade her from it, but she had insisted on following that particular star.

Now he found himself hoping fervently that she had. And sighed. She had fled Rabanastre in the Strahl, in his airship. Which meant that his own movements would be severely restricted, limited as he was to far more pedestrian means of transport. Stubborn, willful girl that she was, she would, of course, make tracking her down no easy task.

And yet, he would. He knew it with a surety that was almost baffling. He would find her because there was simply no way he could do anything less. Perhaps in this past year, all of that emotion that had never faded when his thoughts had turned to her had merely been a sign that the thread of fate stretching between them would not be so easily severed. It was time, then, to follow it at last.


	17. Chapter 17

Penelo had been watching the sky for what felt like hours. Here on the Phon Coast, beneath the wide open sky once again, she felt more at peace than she had in months. The fire she'd constructed lent a pleasant warmth. The night settled in around her, cool and silent, a light breeze rustling through her disordered hair. The stars shimmered overhead as if welcoming her back. Rabanastre had been so bright, alight at all hours, and she had been so hungry for the sight of the stars that she'd slept outside last night simply to be beneath them once again, even though there were perfectly suitable bedrooms aboard the Strahl. It had comforted her to fall asleep gazing up at Balthier's constellation hanging in the sky, as if it were watching over her. As if he were watching over her.

For now, she was content to stick to the wilderness, though she supposed she would have to pass through a city eventually. In her harried flight from Rabanastre, she had neglected to pack even the essentials, sure that at any moment Ashe would show up with a retinue of guards and have her carted right back to the Palace. She should have left long ago, well before that farce of a ceremony. She should have left well before Ashe had gotten it into her head to turn her into a lady.

She sighed, reaching down to pluck briars from the torn, stained folds of her dress. The delicate silk had never been intended for anything more than a sedate walk, and it had all but given up the fight out here in the wilds, the hem shredding to threads, tiny tears threatening to run into long rends. She needed to go wash up; she was covered in sweat and dust. But she hadn't bothered yet to purchase new provisions and supplies, and the only soap aboard the Strahl smelled like Balthier. Earthy and masculine. Sandalwood, she thought. She didn't want to smell him all around her, on her skin, in her hair.

She reached for the bottle at her side, brandy she'd found tucked away in the Strahl's tiny kitchen. She liked it better than whiskey at least; it was sweeter, went down smoother, a pleasant warmth rather than painful, throat-searing burn. And when she lowered the bottle, there he was, leaning back against the Strahl docked not thirty feet away, arms crossed over his chest.

She let her eyes slide away. She had perfected the art in the past year, after all. She had seen his ghost so many times before, and her frantic reactions had so worried everyone that she had learned it was best not to let on when her heart caught in her throat at the sight of him. And she knew that it was never him, that her mind was simply preying upon her hopes, conjuring up impossible images. Best not to acknowledge it at all, then. Continue as she meant to go on. So she kept her eyes studiously averted, blinking back the sudden onslaught of tears that threatened.

"Darling girl, I thought we had already discussed your penchant for wandering off alone into the night."

She froze. Utterly and entirely, as if her every muscle had locked up, creaking under the strain. With a hazy, muddled feeling that had nothing at all to do with the brandy and everything to do with her complete inability to make any sense of the words, her gaze jerked back to him.

_Darling girl. Darling girl. Darling girl._

The words resounded in her head, banged around, slid finally into place like the pieces of a puzzle. And he was still there, that arrogant smirk twisting his lips.

Blackness hovered at the edges of her vision, her thoughts grew murky and dim, but she sucked in great lungfuls of air, staved off threatening oblivion. She had never been given to fits of fainting; she was not about to start now. She staggered to her feet on legs that wobbled precariously beneath her. Opened her mouth, tried to speak, failed. Her hand flew to her throat, as if she could pry the words loose, terrified that she had once again been afflicted with the same wordlessness she had suffered in the months immediately following his death.

His death. His _death_. He was dead. He was not really here, he was eternally entombed within the Bahamut. She was simply imagining him once again. She had to be - there was simply no possible way for him to be alive, everyone had known that he and Fran had perished in the fall of the Bahamut. She could only guess that in the silence of the night, in this place that held such cherished memories of him, and with no city noise to drown out thought, her mind had wrought not only his image but his voice. She hadn't heard it in over a year; his ghost had never deigned to speak to her before.

She tried again, found her voice. "You're...you're not real," she choked out, making a slashing motion of denial with her hand. She was shaking like a leaf in a high wind, aware of the unnaturally high pitch of her voice. "Please, just stop tormenting me. _Leave me in peace_!" Her voice broke high, on a ragged, desperate sound.

His brows drew together, clearly not understanding her distress. Then he shouldered away from the Strahl, walking slowly across the clearing towards her, and she could do nothing but watch him approach, eyes wide, helplessly trembling. He stopped within a foot of her, and she thought...she thought she smelled sandalwood. It assailed her senses, clouding her mind, suffocating her with each heaving, desperate breath she took.

"You ought to know by now that I don't take well to orders," he said. And he reached out, brushed an errant lock of hair away from her face, cupped her cheek in his hand. His fingers were warm, strong, _real_.

She fainted anyway.

He caught her as she sagged. "For the gods' sake..." he bit off, baffled. He lifted her limp body into his arms, striding quickly back towards the Strahl, climbing up the dock, finally shifting her in his arms just enough to be able to open the door to his room. He laid her gently on the bed, then flicked on the light. Her face was terribly pale; she was so still...and he had not missed the fact that she had been much lighter in his arms than he had expected, than he remembered. The foolish girl couldn't be bothered to take care of herself properly.

The neckline of her ruined gown dipped low, exposing her delicate collar bones, which stood out in stark relief. Everywhere there was exposed skin, she seemed thinner, more frail than he remembered. Even her cheekbones were more pronounced. He traced them with his fingertips, hoping she would stir, wake. But her lashes lay flat and still on her white cheeks, her chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths. Her gown was twisted beneath her, wrinkled, torn - it had seen far better days.

He turned his attention to the dresser, hoping it might contain a change of clothing for her, but instead he found a number of his shirts, still neatly pressed and folded, exactly as they had been a year ago. With a measure of disbelief, he realized that nothing had changed in his room at all. She had kept it exactly the same in this past year, as if it were a shrine to a dead man.

He cast that unpleasant thought aside in favor of shaking the creases out of one of his shirts, rendering it a bit less stiff. Then he sat on the bed and carefully drew the gown up over her head, eased her arms into the sleeves of his shirt, and buttoned her into it. He drew the covers up around her, ill at ease with the unnatural pallor of her face. Even her hands were like ice, and he chafed them in his in an attempt to bring some heat back into them.

What the hell had come over her, to behave as she had? She'd looked like she'd seen a ghost. But then perhaps she had, in a sense. Perhaps he ought to have found a slightly more gentle way of announcing his presence, but she had just looked so...forlorn, sitting there alone in the firelight. Solemn little face, vacant eyes, slumped shoulders. She'd looked an absolute mess, like she'd come out on the losing side of a bar fight, her hair a riot of tangles, her gown covered in prickly briars and grass stains. The firelight had caressed her face, but instead of bringing out the golden glow, it had merely emphasized the shadows beneath her eyes. The sight of her so melancholic had hit him like a punch to the gut. Again, the desire to comfort her had nigh overwhelmed him.

It had taken him three days to catch up to her, and she had looked like she hadn't had a good night's sleep since Rabanastre. Poor girl, she had run herself down in her haste to escape. And he didn't doubt that the newly-crowned queen would be even now setting her own scouts to hunt Penelo down. After all, she wouldn't simply let one of her precious few courtiers disappear. Such a vanishing act could wreck havoc on Dalmasca's reputation.

What a terrible tangle Penelo had gotten herself into. It would be a kindness, he was convinced, to help her sort it out, extricate her from this sorry state of affairs.

Her hand moved weakly in his, and she tugged it away, pressing it to her forehead. Seconds later she gave a heavy sigh, and her eyes finally fluttered open. She blinked up at him, momentarily confused to find him seated there beside her. And then her face flushed an angry, mottled red. She jerked upright in a flurry of motion, and her fist landed a solid jab to his jaw, exactly where Vaan had struck him a few days earlier. That bruise had not yet healed, and now he suspected it would linger a good deal longer. Damn, but she had a good right hook.

" _That_ ," he said tightly, "is growing rather tedious."

"You were supposed to be dead!" she hissed. And he couldn't quite find it in him to be angry, because her fit of pique made her face glow with renewed spirit, and his shirt had slipped off her right shoulder, teasing him with just a glimpse of smooth, fair skin.

"I beg your pardon, then, for not being dead. Would you have preferred I was?"

"That...that...did you _undress_ me?" She gaped at the shirt she was clad in, ire climbing to dangerous levels. This time he was prepared, catching her fist in his hand even as she let it fly.

"Violence does not become you, darling girl," he tsked.

" _Don't_ call me that, you...you contemptible swine!"

His eyebrows arched, his fingers curled around her fist, and his thumb stroked across her knuckles. "I see your vocabulary has improved."

She wrenched her hand from his. "Get out! Just...just _get out_!"

"Might I remind you that you are in my bed, in my room, on my airship?"

"You may not," she spat, and her fists were once again clenching in a way that spelled further bodily injury to Balthier, so he removed himself from the edge of the bed in the hopes of thwarting any murderous tendencies to which she might currently lay claim.

It was time to absent himself, as she seemed merely to grow angrier with each passing moment, and he couldn't imagine she was in any mood for conversation at the moment. "As you are clearly overset, I shall wait for you on the deck. You may join me there when you are, ah...more yourself." And he slipped out of the room before she could protest.

Penelo pressed her hands to her face, swallowing heavily. Her heart pounded, her hands trembled, her breath came in furious pants. He was alive. He was _alive_? She didn't know whether she ought to be overjoyed or infuriated. Or humiliated that she had made an utter idiot of herself by fainting like some sort of helpless, delicate maiden. Probably a bit of all three. Only he had the power to incite such a ridiculous mixture of emotions.

How dared he simply reappear, after she'd spent the last year mourning him? Did he think so little of her, of all of them, that he couldn't be bothered to even pen a quick note? Her heart squeezed in her chest and she bit her lip and pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle the sob that had nearly escaped. _Of course he did_. He had made no secret of it, after all - they had been a means to an end. He had had no obligations to them, had professed no loyalties. She had no reason at all to be so overwrought.

She had thought that his death had been the worst pain she would ever experience. She had thought that nothing could ever touch her again, that she could easily live out the rest of her life unmoved by any depth of feeling. Her heart had already broken, had died with him. But she had been wrong - this was the worst pain, to matter so little. To be so insignificant that she had merited not even a single word of farewell, to be carelessly tossed a side like she had outlived her usefulness. It crushed the broken shards of her heart to dust, and she felt it like a physical ache.

A year ago, she would have given anything to hear him say ' _darling girl_ ' just one last time. Now the words made her vaguely nauseated, ashamed. Not a single day had gone by that she had not thought of him, and he had let her suffer, had been glad to be rid of her. What a fool she had been.

She threw back the covers and rose from the bed, pleased to find herself steadier on her feet than she had expected. She could do this. She could walk out there and speak to him with a civil tongue in her head. She could refrain from striking him. She had liked to think that she had risen above such base impulses in the past year, and she had already had one unforgivable lapse when she'd struck him a few moments ago; she could not afford to do so again. She simply needed to recover her composure. Take a few moments to gather the shreds of her dignity and go out there and face him.

Ashe. She needed to emulate Ashe. Cool, poised, unruffled. She hadn't considered that the etiquette lessons Ashe had insisted that she undertake might actually prove themselves useful, but she would call upon them now. She would deliver unto him a set-down the likes of which he would not soon forget. And then he would go, and she could forget this unpleasant turn of events, could weather the humiliating blow he had dealt her in solitude until the pain had faded and the sting of emptiness had abated. The heat of anger vanished, chased away by the frigid chill of ice in her veins.

She _needed_ him gone. He had already chipped away at the icy shroud that had insulated her this past year, and she needed the protection it provided. She needed not to feel, not to hurt. She needed not to _care_. She had resolved never to be so weak again, but he...he could make her so. It was a risk she would never undertake again. This past year had changed her; she was no longer the naive young girl he had once known. It was time for him to discover it.

\--

When Penelo stepped onto the deck a few minutes later, she appeared to be in a much more amiable temperament. Well, perhaps amiable was not quite the right word...but she didn't appear to be predisposed to physical violence any longer, and for that, at least, Balthier was thankful. Despite her decidedly rumpled appearance - barefoot, mussed hair, still clad in his shirt - she moved with an easy, determined grace, accepting the cup of tea he offered and settling gracefully into the chair across from him. Something about her perfect posture, her demurely lowered lashes, grated on his nerves. And he couldn't help goading her in a desperate attempt to shake her up, to shock her into dropping the detached air.

"Playing at being a lady, are we?"

"I _beg_ your pardon." The frosty tone of her voice bit into him. "I _am_ a lady. Ashe saw to that."

"I was under the impression that you had given it up." He shifted a bit, reached into his pocket, drew out the diadem, held it aloft. "You _did_ leave behind a message for the queen and this bit of nonsense after all." Ahh, a betraying rigidity, her spine had snapped straight with outrage. He had not exactly planned to use this against her, but he wanted to shake the prim and proper lady right out of her, tear away the layers of civility that clung to her and reveal the girl beneath.

"Where did you get that?" Her eyelashes flickered dangerously, revealing more than she wished. Her fingers clenched around her cup, as if resisting the urge to snatch the diadem from his hand.

"Precisely where you left it," he said. "Vaan told me you could often be found at the Bahamut. I discovered your little cache of treasures quite by accident. When it became apparent that you had fled the city with _my_ airship" - he could not restrain himself from stressing the word - "of course I had to go looking for her."

Of course he would come back for the Strahl, she thought bitterly. He could so easily push _her_ from his mind, but his beloved airship would draw him back even from death. She was so foolish to allow those careless words to pierce her as they did, but she could not seem to help it. He mocked her pain, humiliated her by casting her secrets before her. She was furious with his callous disregard; she wanted to hurt him, to take revenge against him, payment for all that she had suffered on his account. And she knew exactly how to do it.

Balthier watched her for a moment, trying to read her face. Furious eyes, white knuckles...saccharine sweet smile. An eerie sense of foreboding swept over him. He had intentionally pricked her temper, incited her ire, and she...she had something over him, he was certain. She was positively relishing whatever had come into her mind, savoring the moments before she sprung it on him.

"Oh, dear," she murmured. "My, this _is_ awkward." She sighed, a soft sound of insincere regret. "This is _my_ airship, you see."

That sentence, in its cool, placid tone rung in his ears like a gong. "I must have misheard you. The Strahl is your airship?"

"Mmm." Her self-satisfied smirk jarred; where had she picked _that_ up? "That would be correct."

"I don't see how that could be possible, considering she is and always has been _my_ ship." The words came out from between clenched teeth.

"Oh, that." She waved away his protest. "Well, you see, she was, of course, formerly in your possession. And as she was never truly yours, her ownership was briefly returned to Archadia following your death." She sipped her tea, enjoying his discomfiture, the way his fingers clenched on the arms of his chair, the tight set of his jaw. "Larsa offered her to me. He thought I might want an airship of my own - Vaan has _his_ own, you know - and she was bound for the scrap heap, anyway."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "That pompous little princeling gave you _my_ airship?"

" _My_ airship, please." Fluttering lashes, maddening smile. "It really was a very sweet gesture."

" _Sweet_? He gave you my damned ship!"

"What else should he have done with her? Your tenuous claim to ownership was dissolved by death."

" _I am not dead_!" he roared.

She blinked at him in the wake of his outburst. "Well, yes, I can see that. But really, Balthier, not so much as a simple note in an entire year. What else were we to think?"

"Would you kindly desist with this lady-of-the-manor nonsense? It doesn't suit you in the slightest." He sank back in his chair, rocked by this newfound knowledge. And under the circumstances, there was only one course he could take. He pinched the bridge of his nose, heaved a sigh. "How much do you want for her?"

"Not for sale." She set down her cup, folded her hands in her lap, ignored his pointed jab. How the hell did she manage to look elegant even as disheveled as she was? A button had slipped free, exposing just a tiny bit of the shadowy hollow between her breasts; with no small amount of effort, he pulled his gaze away.

"I assure you, I have the funds to pay for her," he bit off.

"Not. For. Sale." she repeated. "I've grown attached to her."

"That is utter rubbish. There's nothing of you here. She's the same as she ever was."

"That's neither here nor there. The fact of the matter is that she belongs to me, and I will keep her. You cannot have everything you want." Her voice was carefully modulated, neutral, but the flames of anger, of hurt, burned behind her eyes.

And quite suddenly, his anger faded and comprehension struck. She was punishing him. She was trying to hurt him as he'd hurt her. That cool exterior was merely armor intended to keep him at a distance. And beneath the smooth, polished veener of the lady she had become, he was willing to bet that the adventurous, free-spirited girl she had once been lingered still, yearning to break free. That girl he had been rather fond of, in his way. But in the past year she had been trapped in a prison of cool civility and bland courtesy, stifled by Ashe's expectations. And he...he wanted to see her glow again.

It was still there, buried somewhere deep inside her. He saw a bit of it when he goaded her into anger, much as she tried to hide it. He did not care for what she had become, what Ashe had made her into - she had always been intended for so much more than this, so much more than empty words and polite, meaningless conversation. She had been fire and passion, unguarded joy, breathless wonder. She had been artless, innocent, sincere. She had effortlessly enchanted him, unwittingly seduced him.

He wanted to seduce _her_ back into the girl she had once been. He would have to coax her from her anger, of course, and that would be no simple feat, given the way everything about her warded him off with the hostility of a wild animal backed into a corner. But then, he had always relished a challenge.

Penelo shifted in her seat, uneasy with the slow, scheming smile that slid across his face. His eyes raked over her from bottom to top, lingering a touch too long on her exposed thighs, the gap in the front of the shirt. Such a hungry look, it made her want to pull the shirt down over her exposed legs and clutch the collar closed against her throat. But such a move would betray her, and so with no small amount of effort she pretended she had not noticed his perusal.

"Then you had best resign yourself to company, dear girl."

"I...what?"

"I've decided to accompany you, of course. It's fortunate that my bedroom still contains all of my necessities." He enjoyed her open-mouthed expression of shock.

"You can't do that," she said. "You can't just...just invite yourself along on someone else's ship."

"I believe I just did."

This, she had not prepared for. She wracked her brain furiously - she had to get rid of him, she had to keep a firm grip on her icy detachment. She could not do that if he remained here. She took a deep breath, settling her nerves, drawing upon all the suffering she had endured in the past year to keep her voice steady and even.

"Your company is unnecessary." There, she had managed that ably enough, with just the right amount of derision.

"Darling girl, if I did not know better, I would think you were trying to be rid of me."

Her eyes narrowed on his face, that lazy smirk, the arching brow. The bastard was _enjoying_ this. "I have no need of a traveling companion. After a year in Rabanastre, I find that peace and solitude are all I require. Your presence would disrupt that."

"But I have decided that you require an escort, and I don't see how you intend to keep me from that purpose." He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "I know the Strahl far better than you do. I know all of her overrides. And, really, I wouldn't be much of a pirate if it were so easy to keep me out."

Calm. Collected. Cool. Poised. She repeated the words in her head like a mantra. "Surely you have better things to do."

"As it happens, I am currently at loose ends. I should like nothing better than to escort you on your travels."

He had sprung her own trap on her, and she knew of only one way to extricate herself from it. She would have to abandon the Strahl entirely. A loathsome thought to be sure; she loved the ship - perhaps even as much as he did. But there was little she would not have sacrificed for her own peace of mind, of heart. He was amusing himself at her expense, and she did not expect that he would easily relinquish her before he was through toying with her. And she could not bear to be so used again.

"Fine, then." She rose, collected her empty tea cup. "Do as you please. But do not expect _me_ to entertain you."

He followed swiftly as she exited the room, heading towards the small kitchen, where she busied herself with washing and rinsing her cup.

"I am gratified that we could come to an understanding," he said.

"Hmm." A noncommittal reply. He might've believed she truly did not care if he could not see the tightness of her jaw. He sighed - perhaps he ought to have been a little kinder to her, or at the very least not so clearly _shown_ her his pleasure in her discomfort. But she was taking his highhandedness rather well, all things considered. And then, a sinking suspicion: she was taking it rather _too_ well.

He eased casually into the kitchen, blocking the exit, and noted the stiffening of her shoulders. But she merely set the cup in a rack to dry, turned off the water, and turned to face him. She tilted her chin up and that stubborn angle he had always found rather appealing.

"Let me pass," she said.

"Hmm, no, I don't think that I will." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Please, do relieve my mind. You wouldn't be so foolish as to go off on your own, would you?"

A flicker of guilt in her eyes, just for a fraction of a second. He sighed, shook his head, stepped towards her. She stood her ground, admitted nothing.

"That would be very, very unwise." His fingertips grazed her cheek, drifted down her throat, flirted with the collar of his shirt. "I think, from past experience, you ought to have learned not to go off on your own, and should you take such a foolish risk, you would risk inciting my anger when I find you. And, darling girl, I _will_ find you."

Her eyes closed briefly, her breath shuddered out. "I am not a pet, Balthier. You cannot keep me like one." Despite herself, the words came out vulnerable, aching.

 _He wanted to keep her_. After a year, even through the cold lash of her anger, her outraged pride, his own desire to keep a hold on his freedom, he _still_ wanted to keep her. A year ago, he had wanted to protect her from the world. Now, hearing finally the terrible sorrow in her voice, guilt flayed him. He wanted to soothe her, to draw her into his arms and comfort her. He did not, however, imagine she would allow him to do so. He had behaved like a proper ass, and she was raw, wounded. She was still reeling from his unexpected reappearance, and he needed time to disarm her, to carefully pry her from the cocoon she had cobbled together to protect herself against him. Time she would not be inclined to give him, did he continue to rile her.

He had already bungled this badly. She was such a softhearted little thing, and he had mocked her for it. Small wonder she had not cared to renew their acquaintance; he had shown no regard for her feelings, no regard for _her_. He had proved himself just as self-serving and thoughtless as ever. And he realized now, with no small measure of self-reproach, that it wasn't _Ashe_ who had wrought this change in her - _he_ had. Ashe had merely given her the weapons to wield; he had provided the enemy against whom she needed to defend herself. He had broken her trust and quite possibly her heart. The thought roused a strange ache in him, too sharp to be merely guilt.

He brushed back her hair, barely stifling a wince when she flinched from the tender gesture. He kept his voice soft, hoping she might hear the regret within it, perhaps soften towards him a bit. "Ah, dear girl, I have been less than kind to you, it seems. Do you suppose you might find it in your heart to forgive me my thoughtlessness? I assure you that I shall be the soul of courtesy in the future."

Her face was impassive, a study in careful neutrality, but those wide blue eyes were wary, distrustful. "I don't understand you, Balthier," she said flatly. She would have pushed past him, but he caught her wrist.

"But at least you must know that I am speaking the truth," he insisted. "You always did."

Something in her eyes shuttered, dulled. "No," she said. "I lost that ability at some point in the past year. That's the thing about the truth, Balthier - in order to see it, you have to actually care whether or not you're being lied to." She tugged her wrist from his grasp, and retreated down the hall, leaving him to linger in the kitchen with the oddest sense of remorse clinging to him - as if, like a clumsy child, he had carelessly broken something precious and lacked the means to piece it back together.


	18. Chapter 18

Penelo woke the following morning when the Strahl tilted to the left, rolling her across the bed to bump face-first against the wall. Annoyed and groggy, she held her aching head, trying to decide which hurt worse - the thwack against the wall, or the aftereffects of a bit too much brandy the night before. The ship righted; she rolled back towards the center of the bed. For just a moment, there was peace. She plunked a pillow over her head to block out the harsh daylight streaming through the window, hoping she might be able to go back to sleep for just a little while longer.

But then her mind finally registered the fact that the Strahl was, in fact, in flight, and then jumped on to the realization of exactly who was piloting her. The events of the previous evening came crashing back down upon her, and she didn't even try to muffle her groan. Her head still pounded, but now that she considered it, maybe she hadn't had quite _enough_ brandy.

A soft knock at the door. Barely a second passed before the knob was tested, but she had had the foresight to lock it the night before. A heavy sigh from outside the door, followed by another, more determined knock.

She turned her back on the door with a flounce, even though her wordless irritation was lost to him through the sturdy wooden barrier.

"Penelo?"

She declined to dignify his inquiry with a response.

"Do you intend to sulk _all_ day?"

Sulk! As if she were a petulant child! He had the unmitigated gall to chastise _her_? She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut - he was angling for a response, and she would not engage. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to take several long, deep breaths. Distant. Calm. She needed to retreat to that cold, dark place she had inhabited for so long, where there was no feeling, just a blessed numbness.

"I thought you might like to hear about Fran."

Fran! She bolted upright, smacking her head on the shelf built into the headboard, and let loose a muffled string of curses. Fran...had they _both_ made it out of the Bahamut? She had been so surprised by his miraculous survival, so angered by his careless defection, that she hadn't even thought to ask after Fran. That was unconscionable, considering it was Fran's former bedroom she was now occupying. She rubbed the wounded spot at the top of her head, ascertained that she hadn't broken the skin but would likely have quite the goose egg. Blast him. She would have to go out. He would hold hostage the information she wanted until she did.

"I'll be out shortly," she said finally, glaring at the door.

Outside the door, Balthier suppressed a snicker. He had heard both the telltale smack and the blistering string of curses that had followed it. Somehow he did not imagine she would appreciate the fact that he had found the vulgarities she had spouted more endearing than offensive.

He had not been particularly surprised to find that she was occupying Fran's bedroom rather than his, but he had been a touch...disappointed, he thought. It had been easier to put her from his mind when they were separated by miles, but not nearly so now that she was sleeping just across the hallway, separated from him only by a door. A _locked_ door. Dear, sweet, innocent girl. She could not be so naive as to think anything as simple as a lock could keep him out, could she? Ahh, of course she could. She underestimated his determination, or her own inherent charms, or perhaps both. These things he could use to his advantage.

He retreated to the deck to wait for her, having found nothing edible in the kitchen with which to break his fast. No matter; they were underweigh and would soon be arriving at the Aerodrome in Balfonheim where they could acquire the necessary provisions.

She emerged a few minutes later and took a seat as far from him as she could, still clad only in his shirt, still barefoot, still decidedly rumpled-looking.

"Nothing to wear?" he inquired innocently.

She shifted uncomfortably, a delicate flush climbing into her cheeks. "I neglected to pack when I left Rabanastre, and Fran's clothing...well, she is a good deal taller than I, isn't she?"

True. But then, Fran's taste in clothing had always run a bit on the risque side (although still considered somewhat prudish by Viera standards), certainly moreso than Penelo's ever had. For a moment he imagined Penelo rifling through Fran's drawers, searching for something acceptable to wear, finding only garments that would be more suitable as lingerie than outerwear. How she must've fretted over that! Even his shirt would cover more than any of Fran's things.

"Hmm. Well, I suppose we shall have to find you some appropriate clothing in Balfonheim, then," he said. "Until then, you may, of course, have the loan of my shirt."

Pursed lips signified her disapproval at his presumption, but she ignored both his proclamation of their destination and his generous contribution to her sorely lacking wardrobe. She busied herself with rolling up the sleeves of the shirt, cuffing them at her wrists so the excess fabric would no longer display the regrettable tendency to slip down over her hands.

"You have news of Fran?" she asked; a polite inquiry, just the barest touch of interest in her tone. She was striving so hard not to let him hear the concern that he knew was there.

"Alive and well, I assure you." He had briefly considered making her work harder for the information she wanted, but had ultimately decided against it. She had enough cause to be furious with him already; he did not need to add anything further to his list of offenses.

"Strange, then, that she should not be traveling with you," she remarked.

In truth, Fran had not offered to come along on his journey to recover the Strahl. She had made several cryptic statements regarding the possibility of him acquiring more than he had bargained for, and not wishing to get in his way. He had not considered until now that perhaps Fran had somehow known that such proximity to Penelo would be more than he could resist.

"Not so very strange, in fact. She has been spending a great deal of time with her sisters in Eruyt Village of late. Mjrn has taken it into her head to become a sky pirate, and I suspect Fran will wish to travel with her for a time." He bestowed upon her his most charming smile, but she merely furrowed her brow in confusion, as though unsure what to make of his expression. How in hell was he to charm her from her snit if she could not be charmed?

An alarm from the navigation console chimed, signalling their descent into Balfonheim port, and he rose to his feet.

"I suppose I had best find you something more to wear into the city, at least until we can find you some more suitable clothing." He gestured to indicate her bare legs.

Her chin rose a notch. "I can't say that I recall agreeing to accompany you," she said.

He sighed. She was bound and determined to make this as difficult as possible, but he supposed she was due a bit of retribution. Still, she was hardly giving him an opportunity to restore himself to her good graces.

"There is a festival in Balfonheim today," he said. "I had thought perhaps you might like to attend."

She tilted her head to the side, her mussed hair sliding over her shoulder. "And the catch?"

"My accompaniment, of course."

"No, thank you." She stood, turned to leave. He stayed her with a hand on her arm.

"You require clothing, and the provisions aboard the Strahl are in need of replenishing. It is necessary to go into town today for these things," he said.

"By all means, go without me."

He ground his teeth together. "If I could be assured that you would remain here until I returned, I would do so. But somehow, I don't imagine that will happen short of locking you in your room and disabling the Strahl, which I would rather not do."

She gasped, affronted. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Of course I would," he snapped. "But I would _rather_ have the pleasure of your company. So which is it to be?"

For a moment she looked as though she would relish taking a swing at him. She settled for jerking her arm from his grasp and glaring mutinously up at him. "Fine. We'll go into the city."

"I thought you might come around." He strode off down the hall and returned a moment later with a pair of plain linen pants and a belt. "These ought to do, at least until we find you an outfitter. Though a bath might be in order beforehand."

She took the proffered garments with a saccharine smile. "I liked you better when you were dead," she said with poisonous sweetness. Then she turned abruptly on her heel, stalking down the hall to the bathroom, where she slammed the door behind her.

\--

She had, of course, rejected his every attempt at conversation since they had left the Strahl, and had not so much as glanced in his direction. Still, her fit of pique brought a charming flush of color to her cheeks, which, coupled with her hair which was drying to wispy blond tendrils about her face and the clothing that was several sizes too big for her, served only to make her look...adorable. Like a child playing dress-up. He did not expect that she would appreciate the comparison, so he wisely kept his opinion to himself.

The festival had drawn hordes of people to the coastal city, rendering the already crowded streets nigh impassable. He would not have put it past her to attempt to slip away from him amidst the thickening crowds, so instead he directed her down a side street with a hand on her elbow. They passed a few storefronts before coming upon a seamstress' shop, and he held the door open for her to enter.

The proprietress, a heavy-set middle-aged woman, clucked her tongue disapprovingly at Penelo in her ill-fitting men's clothing.

"My, my. No need to ask what's brought you in," she said. "I can see you'll need a bit of everything." She retrieved a length of measuring tape from a pouch at her waist and wrapped it around Penelo's midsection. "My dear, you could do with a little fattening up. Here, I've just the thing."

She bustled out of the room and returned a few moments later carrying a plate of pastries and a mug of cider. She directed Penelo to a chair and set the food on a low table before it.

"I've a few ready-made things that I should be able to alter to your size fairly quickly, so you just sit there and eat, and I'll bring them out." And she was off again, searching through the back of the shop.

Balthier dropped into a chair across from Penelo, snatching up a pastry for himself before she could protest. "She's right, you know. You _could_ use a little fattening up."

"I fail to see how stealing _my_ breakfast will achieve that end," she sniffed disdainfully.

"Have a heart, darling girl; it's well after noon and I've yet to eat. And shopping for clothing is so dreadfully boring."

A long-suffering sigh through gritted teeth. "I _know_."

He lifted a brow. "I was of the impression that women enjoyed it immensely."

" _I've_ never cared for it. It's all being poked with pins and then being told to _stand still_ and having people come at you with measuring tapes and stuffing you into all manners of uncomfortable clothing." She shuddered, wearing a look of extreme distaste. Then she came to the unpleasant realization that she had been chatting with him rather than ignoring him. Her expression shuttered and she averted her gaze, instead focusing her attention on her breakfast.

Balthier smothered a triumphant smirk. For a moment at least, she had forgotten her anger. If only he could engage her interest, keep her talking, perhaps she would see her way past her present irritation, perhaps that icy exterior would thaw once again into the vibrant warmth he had always associated with her.

The proprietress returned, arms laden with surfeit of garments which she began hanging on a rack for their perusal. Penelo managed a weak smile, daunted by the overabundance of clothing displayed before her.

"Hmm, not the green, I'd think," the proprietress said thoughtfully, studying Penelo. "Too dark for your complexion, dear." She removed a few garments from the rack, laying them aside. "Nor the purple, neither, I should say."

Balthier rose to his feet and began to comb through the remaining choices. "This one," he said finally, withdrawing a hanger from the rack. "She looks lovely in pink."

"Ahhh." The woman accepted the hanger from Balthier and brought it to Penelo to test the dusty rose color of the fabric against her skin. "Wonderful, just the thing. Your gentleman has excellent taste, dear. It goes so well with your fair hair."

Penelo took the hanger as the woman ushered her towards a changing room. "But he's not my -"

"I think a few others as well," Balthier interrupted. "We'll discuss it while she changes."

By the time Penelo emerged from the changing room, Balthier and the proprietress had settled on four additional outfits that could be altered easily enough. All they had needed was a bit of hemming at the cuffs of the legs, which the proprietress completed in just a few minutes with the rose-colored pants and assured them that the rest of the garments would be delivered to them at the Aerodrome later in the day.

Though Penelo could not like Balthier's presumption in choosing her garments, she reluctantly admitted to herself that it would have been a much more arduous process without him. She had never had the patience for selecting such things herself, and she _did_ rather like the loose-fitting pants and watered silk corset top he had chosen. The color gave her skin a warm golden glow, and she was glad to have the freedom of motion only pants could provide once again, since her wardrobe at the palace in Rabanastre had been limited to gowns and skirts. Ashe had said they were elegant and had insisted that there was no longer any need for serviceable garments when she could have luxurious ones instead. Penelo had never felt less elegant in her life than she did in the diaphanous gowns Ashe had ordered for her; she had developed the habit of hiking up her skirts in a manner Ashe had sniffed was 'unseemly' to avoid constantly tripping over the hems.

Balthier cleared his throat behind her. "For your hair," he said, handing over a length of ribbon.

Penelo accepted the offering, turning to the mirror to comb her fingers through her hair and bind it up away from her face. He lingered behind her, so close she could feel the heat of his body, and his eyes slid over her like a hand. His gaze caught hers in the mirror and he smiled, a hungry-wolf sort of smile that made her shiver with its intensity.

"You do look lovely," he said, easing closer. Too close for comfort; she sidled away but could only move so far, trapped as she was in the small room, bordered by the wall, the mirror, and him. That knowing grin widened; blast him, he knew exactly how uncomfortable he was making her!

In her nervousness, she fumbled with the ribbon, and he stepped in. "Please, allow me," he said, tugging the ribbon from her trembling fingers. She closed her eyes so she would not have to see him, but she felt him instead, his gentle fingers smoothing her hair back, making short work of the task. His fingertips grazed the back of her neck; she felt the brief contact like a brand upon her skin.

"Hmm." His voice was a warm purr at her ear. "I suppose we shall have to purchase some toiletries as well. I can't say my soap suits you. Perhaps...lavender?"

The subtle insinuation in his voice made her eyes snap open, then narrow with ill humor. His hands curved over her shoulders, a sly smile curved his lips.

She stomped on his foot.

He released her with a muffled curse, bending to rub his injured toes. His annoyed glare promised retribution, but she merely stuck her nose in the air and folded her arms over her chest.

"Really, Balthier," she huffed. "You're lucky I'm not carrying a weapon. I've done far worse, and for lesser offenses."

And she pushed past him, leaving him to hobble along in her wake as they left the shop.

\--

He had to hand it to the cheeky little brat; her unexpected attack had forced him to cede the first round to her. Sadly, while his tooled leather boots were soft and comfortable, they provided little protection against willful females, and he knew he would feel the ache of his miscalculation for some time thereafter.

Still, she hadn't managed to get far ahead of him at least, and her fair hair and rose-colored clothing made her easy to spot in a crowd. She had stopped briefly to watch a small cluster of children engaged in a festival game of sorts; they were crowded around a brazier, plucking slowly-roasting dates from a steaming bowl. He recalled the game from his youth in Archadia - one had to move quickly to grab up a date, or risk singeing one's hands on the hot metal bowl.

The older children were old professionals at it, taller and swifter than the younger ones. They snatched up their dates with ease, popping the sugary fruit into their mouths with delight. The younger children, who were too small to see over the edge of the bowl to the fruit it held, were forced to rely upon the kindness of the older children, none of whom seemed overly inclined to share their bounty.

A young girl who held a moogle stuffed animal tucked beneath her arm pulled at the fabric of Penelo's pants to catch her attention, the thumb of her free hand stuck in her mouth. He watched as Penelo dropped to her knees and bent her head closer to the girl, who whispered something in Penelo's ear. At once, Penelo rose to her feet, patting the child on the head affectionately, and approached the brazier, squeezing past the group of older children circling the brazier.

He tensed; surely she wasn't going to...?

But she had already reached in, plucked out a small handful of dates, and was receiving her accolades from the older children for having managed to snag so many. She tossed the little handful of fruit in the air to cool it, laughing as the older children hustled to outdo her record catch.

She returned to her spot by the small girl, holding out her hands in offer. They shared the sticky fruit together; the little girl and her chosen champion. Finally the fruit was gone, and the little girl disappeared into the crowd happy, having gotten her bit of the spoils. Penelo's fond smile died when she caught sight of Balthier, who was aware that he looked less than pleased at her actions.

"You could have been hurt," he said.

"Don't be ridiculous. It's a game; I've played it hundreds of times. I'm fast; I can grab the dates without burning myself."

"You ought to have let someone else do it." He knew he was being unreasonable; she'd never been in any real danger. But still his heart had raced, sure that she would be injured, sure that he could do nothing to stop it in time.

"Oh, really?" She was absently licking the caramelized sugar from her fingers; he was momentarily transfixed. "Who would you recommend to do it, then?"

"Her parents. One of the other children. _Anyone_ else." He heard his voice go hoarse; her pink tongue had made a swift swipe across her thumb and his blood had run hot.

She fixed him with a pointed look. "She's an orphan. They're _all_ orphans." Her stern expression faded, melting into a look of heart-rending sorrow, born of her own past as a street urchin, alone and bereft of family. "There are so many orphans, Balthier," she murmured.

"I don't want you taking such a risk again, regardless of the cause." Dear gods, why in hell did it matter so much to him whether or not she indulged in such games? Why did the thought of her in pain make his stomach clench with fear?

Her mouth flattened into a thin line. "I don't believe I asked for your permission." That crisp, ladylike tone was back in her voice, her spine ramrod straight. Her still-sticky fingers had clenched into fists. Then, as if struck by divine inspiration, her indignant expression faded to a smirk so self-satisfied that he could not even begin to guess at her intent.

"Oh, dear," she said. "Dates are so very messy, you know. And I haven't got a napkin, so I suppose I'll just have to make do with..." She reached out and wiped one hand down the front of his shirt, leaving a trail of the sticky date-residue on the clean, white fabric, and laughed with pure delight at his consternation, her head tilted back, glorying in her own vindictiveness.

But she was too distracted in her exultation to be paying much attention to him, and he snatched up her free hand, pulling her towards him. And her laughter faded to wary silence as he lifted her hand to his mouth. She tried to pull away, but he had a firm grasp on her wrist.

"What are you doing?" she asked, but her voice was just a whisper, a breathless sound of anticipation.

"As you did not see fit to share your spoils with me, I will simply have to take what I can find." And he closed his mouth around her forefinger, his tongue caressing away the lingering traces of sugar. He expected a fight, but she merely stared, shocked, as he licked the sugar from her fingers.

Round two, Balthier. Ahh, he did so very much enjoy that stunned expression of wonderment. The wide, unfocused eyes, the sudden indrawn breath that shuddered out on a feathery sigh, the minute curling of her fingers around his. She was nowhere near as immune to him as she would like him to believe. Now he had only to make her come to accept it.

"As _satisfying_ as that was," he said. "I believe we could do with something a bit more substantial, hmm?"

His voice broke the sensual spell he had woven around her; she blinked in horrified amazement and jerked her hand from his grasp, staring down at her fingers as if she'd never seen them before. Then her gaze drifted up to his face, and he gifted her with a wicked smile which only grew as hot color flooded her face.

For a moment he thought she might turn and run like a frightened rabbit, for surely he had shocked her with his shameless advances. And indeed, she took a step away from him as if she thought he might fall upon her like a ravenous wolf. But the streets were crowded; she backed right into someone, muttered a hasty apology. No escape, poor girl. He could almost pity her.

He seized the advantage, caught her by the shoulder, propelling her towards him, grabbing up her hand in his. "Let's go, then, shall we?"

She stumbled along after him, shackled by his firm grip and her own bewilderment. "Why...why did you do that?"

"Why not?" A careless shrug.

"That's hardly a proper answer." There was a quivering note of _something_ in her voice that he could not quite identify; he thought perhaps confusion, but that seemed too tame. She sounded as if he had knocked her world off its axis and she was struggling to right herself.

"It was hardly a proper question." She _had_ to know why he'd done it...didn't she? She had been shying away from him, shoving him away whenever he got too close. And he wondered if perhaps she underestimated her own appeal; if she was more afraid of her own weakness than of him. If she was less angry with him than she was frightened of what he could make her feel. Ahh, a theory to be tested. He needed only to overwhelm her, surprise her, wrest her careful control away, and her true reactions would surface to be read. An intriguing idea.

In the commerce district at the edge of town, restaurants had expanded their reaches into the plaza, creating a terrace clustered with tables. Thirty feet away or so, where the cobblestone street faded into the grassy outskirts of the city, a large group of people danced around a blazing bonfire. Balthier escorted Penelo to an unoccupied table, and a server promptly appeared tableside to drop off a round of drinks and take their order.

"Summer festival specialty," he said, sliding two cups onto the table before them. "On the house."

Balthier took a drink and understood immediately - of course, inebriated patrons would be more easily induced to part with their gil, and a rum punch on the house might help them on their way to that happy state. But Penelo was blithely sipping at hers, and he wondered if she was even aware that there was anything but fruit juice in it. He decided against warning her of it as she did not seem particularly inclined to make conversation; let her deal with the consequences.

Penelo seemed entranced by the dancing, had hardly glanced in his direction during their supper in favor of studying the intricate, whirling steps the dancers made as they circled the bonfire. He had been of a mind to ask her if she might like to join them when a voluptuous little serving maid dropped herself into his lap and twined her arms around his neck.

Of course, _that_ would catch her attention, no matter that he had been just as surprised as she.

Penelo shot to her feet. "I'm going to dance," she said shortly, and made her escape before he could protest. So instead he watched her wind her way through the tables toward the bonfire, observing on the edge for a moment before another dancer grabbed her hand, pulling her into the steps.

"Now, now," the woman on his lap patted his cheek to regain his attention. "No use hankering after that one, she don't want you." She batted large brown eyes up at him, pressed herself against his chest, her ample cleavage threatening to spill from her bodice. " _I'll_ take you on, though, if you're of a mind."

He sighed, gently prying her clutching fingers from his shirt. "Sweet of you to offer, pet, but I'm afraid I must decline."

She made a little moue of disappointment as he lifted her off his lap, but accepted his refusal with good grace after he tucked a couple of gil into her hand, and finally she traipsed off to find another patron.

For a few minutes he watched the dancers, every now and then catching a glimpse of Penelo as she spun through the steps, her fair hair shining like a beacon in the firelight. She looked alive at last, her mouth curved in an enchanting smile, laughing as she stumbled through some of the paces she had not yet mastered. But she was focused on learning the steps, and she did not look back at him, had not seen him dismiss the wench.

She was thoroughly engrossed in dancing; he would not be missed if he slipped away for a bit to gather the rest of their provisions. She would not even realize he had gone, not when she was so enjoying herself. And somehow, it stung - that she truly would not even miss him.

\--

When he finally returned, having made arrangements to have his purchases sent up to the Strahl at the Aerodrome, Penelo was still enmeshed in the throng of dancers. Her hair had come loose, shining wheat-colored waves flying after her through the sinuous motions of the dance. She was an excellent dancer, he thought - she had so quickly learned the steps, moved in perfect tandem with the pounding beat of the drums, all lithe grace and surefooted elegance.

Until she stumbled, missed a step, and he noticed finally the cup held in her hand, which she then tipped to her mouth in a long swallow. She recovered herself, and a helpful young man snatched the empty cup from her hand, replacing it with a full one.

At once, he wended his way through the crowd towards the bonfire, catching her on the next pass, pulling her none too gently from the circle of dancers. He pried the cup from her hands, took a drink - rum punch, of course.

"How many of these have you had?" He tightened his grip on her wrist when she would have pulled away.

"Two. No, three. Four?" She shrugged. "I don't remember." But she was swaying on her feet, and not to the music.

"It's time to go."

"No!" She tried ineffectually to pry his hand loose from her wrist. "I was having fun!"

"Darling girl, you're sotted."

"It was just punch!"

"It was _rum_ punch, and rather heavy on the liquor at that." He set the cup down on a nearby table, bent at the knees, and slung her over his shoulder, having determined that she was in no mood to come along quietly.

"You...you...arrogant ass!" She beat her fists against his back, kicked her legs, which accomplish precisely nothing. "Put me down!"

But he was already striding away, and no one seemed particularly inclined to come to her rescue. He ignored her infuriated stream of invectives, more concerned with getting her back to the safety of the Strahl than with being the focus of her ire.

But she tired quickly, and the way her head swam made her suspect that Balthier probably had a point. Dizziness assailed her.

"I think I'm going to throw up," she murmured. And immediately he set her on her feet, steadying her. Her stomach ceased its worrying upheaval, settling down to a manageable discomfort.

"All right, then?" His voice was rough, but concerned.

She nodded. " _Don't_ pick me up again."

"Be good, then, and come along." He snatched up her hand and dragged her along behind him. "I would have thought by now you'd have learned your limit."

"I've never had rum punch before. Ashe never lets me have more than a glass of champagne," she murmured inanely. "I suppose it's easier to drink too much when it doesn't _taste_ like liquor."

He was muttering under his breath; she couldn't catch more than snatches of it, but she'd managed to understand _obnoxious chit_ and _going to be the death of me_ , and she drew in a furious breath.

" _You_ decided you were going to accompany me, so don't you _dare_ blame me for it! _I_ never expected to see you again! I would never have expected to see you again even if I had known you were alive!"

He stopped abruptly, rounded on her. "What in the world is _that_ supposed to mean?"

She had clamped her mouth shut, shaking her head. "Nothing," she said finally. "Nothing at all." But that icy crispness had inserted itself back into her voice, a tell, he was quickly learning, that she had become uncomfortable, wished to shut down that avenue of questioning.

And this time, he could not allow her to do so. "Darling girl," he said. "I think it is high time we talked."


	19. Chapter 19

Penelo blinked. Somehow she had ended up on the deck of the Strahl, settled into a chair with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and a cup of cold water in her hands. Her head spun, her thoughts disordered and jumbled. Balthier had seated himself across from her, his long legs stretched out before him, his chin propped in his hand as he leaned forward, observing her with cool green eyes that saw too much. The Strahl rocked gently, having been set on an unknown flight course.

For long moments they merely stared at each other. Penelo sensed that he was waiting for something, and she didn't know what it was, and it made her unspeakably nervous. He had the look of a lazy tiger, lounging as he was, but she suspected he was merely biding his time, poised to strike at any moment. She didn't like the disquieting thought that she was the prey in this scenario.

"So," he said finally. "Would you like to talk?" His voice was deceptively even and mild. She didn't trust it for a moment.

"No, thank you." Her hands curled ever tighter around the glass, bringing it to her lips to hide her face from his scrutiny. "I'd like to go to bed."

"You need to sober up a bit first, drink some water. You're going to have a devil of a headache in the morning," he said, and he sounded almost...regretful. Compassionate. "I should have kept a closer eye on you."

"I _don't_ need a babysitter." She'd had enough people hovering around her in the past year, always dogging her steps, correcting her, cosseting her when all she'd wanted was a bit of peace. She had hated it, hated the way people treated her as if she were fragile, delicate, trying not to upset her at all costs. She had hated the vaguely pitying looks, the constant attention. She hadn't escaped all that just to be thrust back beneath someone else's thumb. His thumb. She had never wanted to be a responsibility, a burden.

"You're angry with me."

"No. No, I'm not. I'm angry with myself." And she lapsed into silence once again, shocked by the way the words rose in her throat, pushing against her teeth to escape. She would never drink again; it made her say more than she wished to, stripped away the barriers she had erected and forced her to scramble desperately for cover. He knew it; he was ruthless enough to push her when she could not manage to gather her defenses.

"Why?" he asked, watching the unguarded emotions chase across her face. Her lips quivered, her shoulders tightened, tensed as though she might spring to flee. "It's got to come out sometime, darling girl. You might as well cut loose."

"Don't call me that." The words came out a painful, ragged whisper, wrenched from some deep, aching part of her. For a moment a few tears trembled on her lashes, and then dropped, sliding down her cheeks. Horrified, she brushed them away with a choked sound.

Her torment squeezed his heart. He rose to his feet to go to her, but she erupted in a flurry of motion, upsetting the water glass, and dove towards the door. She warded him off with one outstretched hand, her shoulders shaking.

"I'm _not_ crying. I don't cry." But her breath hitched in her throat between the words, the tears continued to fall.

"Penelo..." He reached for her; she darted away.

" _Don't touch me_!" she cried in a high, thin voice.

With effort, he stood still, his hands at his sides. Her vulnerability clawed at him, made him want to comfort her...made him need to comfort her. She swayed unsteadily on her feet, wrapped her hands around the back of a chair for balance, for strength.

"I knew what you were," she whispered. "It's no one's fault but mine."

"What was I, then?" He modulated his tone carefully, knowing she might flee at any moment if he did not, if he scared her or startled her or made a single move she did not like.

"Inconstant." Her eyes closed; more tears streaked her white, tense face. "Capricious. I didn't expect anything else, I swear I didn't."

"Then why are you angry? Why, if you expected nothing?"

She ignored him. "I never asked anything of you. I never would have. I don't think I was such a clinging sort of person. Did you really have to _die_ to escape me?"

 _No_. Oh, no. She had gotten it all wrong. His fists clenched at his sides helplessly; he could not hold her, could not comfort her - she would shatter, and he would lose her.

"You could have just left. I would have understood. I really..." she took a shuddering, gasping breath. "I really never expected anything else. But instead you died, and I died, too. Over and over. I've lost everyone I ever -" but she bit back the rest of the words, pressing her hand to her mouth to muffle them.

He made a rough sound in his throat, trying to clear away the curious lump that had risen there, to banish the tightness from his jaw. She had lost everyone she'd ever loved, _that_ was what she had been about to say. Had he once been counted amongst those illustrious ranks? He waited for the sensation of entrapment to grip him, for the noose of expectations to begin tightening around his neck, but it did not come. He had always assiduously avoided any such entanglements, had called halt to any liaisons as soon as his chosen partners displayed any such indications of jealousy or possession. Why, then, did he feel no such compulsion to disabuse Penelo of it? Instead he wanted to comfort her, to soothe her battered pride, her savaged emotions.

"I've made such a fool of myself. But you've made a fool of me, too, Balthier, and I let you do it. You couldn't even let me keep a few of my illusions. Why did you have to come back? It would have been so much kinder if you hadn't."

"Penelo, sweet, please..." He couldn't bear that broken expression for another moment. "Please, let me -"

"You have to go." Her tremulous voice cut him to ribbons. "You _have_ to go, Balthier. I'll go back to Rabanastre. I'll pretend to be a lady. I'll be fine, really." A gasping breath, dredged up from the depths of her soul. "But with you...I can't...I _can't_..."

He had done this to her, reduced her to this. He had broken that sweet, gentle girl, turned her into a frightened, pale shadow of her former self. She had deserved better than what he had given her; she had given him so much and he had taken and taken until there was nothing left of her, until she was empty, her spirit extinguished. He had run her down, left her broken and bleeding, and hadn't even looked back to see how she fared.

And he could not reach her now, not while she trembled like a leaf in a high wind, not while those silent tears continued to fall like rain. Not while her white face was pinched with pain, while the effects of his unintentional cruelty were writ fresh upon it. She might have recovered herself somewhat in the morning, but she would not thank him for how he had besieged her tonight.

"You should sleep," he said carefully. "You'll feel better in the morning. We'll talk further then, and you may rail at me all you wish."

For a moment she merely stared, as if he was speaking to her in a language she could not comprehend. Then, finally, she nodded shakily. She turned on unsteady legs, drifting listlessly down the corridor, one hand pressed over her chest as if she might hold in the shards of her heart. He heard her bedroom door open and close softly, and sank into a chair, head in his hands.

His conscience shrilled at him, shaming him for his arrogance, his hubris and greed. Gods, what had he done to her? In the morning, they would resolve this. In the morning, he would make his explanations, give her the apology she deserved, ask her forgiveness. She was sensible; she would understand. She was charitable; she would forgive. In the morning, all would be set to rights once again.

But when morning finally dawned, she was gone.

\--

She could not have gotten far; that was his only consolation. The ship had been docked in the middle of the Phon Coast, so she had to have disembarked at most only a few hours before sunrise. In her rush to escape, she hadn't waited to reach a city; she had merely set them down in the middle of nowhere and taken off. That would leave her with a quite a walk ahead of her, in order to reach a city from which she might be able to purchase passage on some sort of vessel.

Probably she had not wanted to face him. Probably she had desperately needed to get away, wouldn't risk exposing herself as she had been last night. Probably she thought he would not pursue her, as she had left the Strahl in his hands. She was wrong, of course, but that mistaken belief would make her complacent, keep her on an easy course rather than a frantic flight. He was counting on her overconfidence - or, rather, her _under_ confidence in her own appeal. It was what would enable him to catch up to her.

She had had only a few hours' head start, and he was an experienced tracker. She hadn't taken much with her; he'd found the wrapped package that had been delivered by the seamstress on her bed, untouched - only the outfit she'd worn the day before was missing. The provisions he'd acquired in Balfonheim were similarly untouched. She had gone once more into the wilderness on her own, but now she was without the shelter of the Strahl, without anything more than the clothes on her back. He could only desperately hope that she had thought to bring a weapon of some sort with her for her own protection.

She would be heading for a settlement - a place where she could acquire her own provisions, as she had not seen fit to take any of his. From the Strahl's current location, that left Balfonheim - two days journey on foot - or the hunter's camp on the Phon Coast, which would be a mere six hours or so. He was banking on the latter. Perhaps she would head into Balfonheim eventually, but based upon her reckless abandonment, he suspected she would instead be headed towards the comparative peace of the hunter's camp. She would want the isolation, the remoteness, the solitude. She would need the quiet stillness of the place to recover her equilibrium, to regain her shattered composure.

Of course, he would have to restrain his anger at her foolhardy actions long enough to soothe her injured pride. But he _would_ have to impress upon her his displeasure with her recklessness; she could not continue this unfortunate habit of disappearing into the wilds on her own. For his sake, if not her own - he could not go on with the constant worry for her, wondering if she was hurt, if she had taken ill, if she was alone and frightened. He was not accustomed to this concern, this disquieting level of tightness in his chest - like he would not be able to draw a full breath until he knew she was safe. He was unused to caring, and he did not find it a comfortable sensation. But against all odds, he _did_ care.

Perhaps she thought he was merely using her, amusing himself with her. Perhaps she had been just as bewildered at his unusual behavior as he had been. After all, he had left her grieving for the past year, had, by all appearances, spared not a thought for her until his abrupt reappearance, which had knocked her off balance, kept her teetering on the precipice of confusion and uncertainty. And now she feared him, had been caught up in a tide of hot humiliation and despair, drowning in her own dashed illusions. Perhaps she had not expected anything of him, as she'd said, but perhaps his death had freed her to acknowledge emotions she never would have had she known he yet lived. She had been free to love the man who had died without reservation, without expectation, for that man belonged solely to the past. He could not hurt her. He could not disappoint or abandon her. He could not throw her tender feelings back in her face, humiliate her with his callous disregard. It was far easier to love a memory.

But instead he had destroyed her illusions to become flesh and blood once again, had pierced her heart with his indifference, had shattered her bittersweet memories, replaced them with pain, left her broken and bleeding. She had loved a man who had been honorable at the last, a man who had died in the pursuit of Ivalice's freedom. And she had been crushed to learn that the man who had lived was not the man she had loved after all; this man was selfish, insensitive, cruel. This man was not the paragon she had built him into; she believed that he had let her think him dead to be rid of her, that he had found death preferable to her company.

When in reality, he had fled for her sake, for both of their sakes, because he had wanted to keep her. Of course she could not know that, and somehow he did not think that such a thing would even occur to her. And now she had fled from him to protect herself, to save herself any further humiliation.

He had left her before, but she had never truly left him. She had always been there, patiently waiting in the dark corners of his mind, lingering in his dreams. He had not been able to banish her completely; she had clung tenaciously to him, dancing across his memories, stubbornly resisting his every effort to exorcise her. More often than he would care to admit, he had heard her chiding voice, felt her disapproval or her gentle reproof - for her memory had become like his conscience, directing his actions, turning him into a better version of himself. He had made his peace with her there, ceased attempting to drown her out, had achieved a sort of acceptance of her presence. But then, seeing her in Rabanastre had brought back a rush of memories, stoked the embers of old emotions back to roaring life. And her voice had gone quiet in his mind, erased by the living, breathing reality of her, as if it had been only a placeholder, filling a vacant spot that must soon be occupied by the real person.

He had been a fool, he realized, to think that he could see her again and not want her. Just as she was a fool to think that she could run from him, a fool to think that he would not pursue her. He could only hope that she would understand the futility of it, would cease attempting to escape the inevitable.

\--

He arrived at the hunter's camp just as dusk was falling in heavy streaks of pink and purple on the horizon. It had not changed much in the past year; not many travelers ventured out this far into the wilderness. It still housed less than a dozen tents, a blazing bonfire, and a few merchants. He had docked the Strahl some distance away, not wishing to alert Penelo to his presence should she manage to get a glimpse of it - it wouldn't do to send her into a panicked flight before he had even ascertained whether or not she was here.

But a few inquiries to the locals indicated that she was - several people had acknowledged that a fair-haired young woman had indeed passed through and had headed off in the direction of the hot spring. He had the curious sense of history repeating, of the events of the past year draining away, leaving only that wondrous feeling of awed discovery, of magic under the soft glow of moonlight in their wake.

Although he hardly dared to hope, he returned to the Strahl to collect a few items, and then made his way toward the hot spring, carefully easing through the copse of trees, moving silently to avoid detection. As he crossed into the clearing, the milky moon burst into view, the first stars speckled the night sky, glittering like gemstones. Steam rose in delicate whorls, stretching its swirling tendrils into the air.

The darkness and misty condensation shrouded the spring, and for a moment he did not see her. And then, finally, he heard a muffled curse, and peered through the veil of fog to see a shadowy shape, settled on the large stone marking the center of the spring. Her back was to him, but she appeared to be attempting to comb the tangles from her hair with her fingers. Another curse - he thought perhaps it was not going well for her.

And then a wistful sigh, the slump of her shoulders. She drew her knees up to loop her arms around them, apparently having given up the task. The water lapped gently at the shore, at the rock in the center, the soft sounds masking his own as he quietly removed his clothing to set it on the grassy bank.

This time he would not be the passive observer, the shameless voyeur he had been a year ago. He slipped silently into the water, wading slowly toward her unseen, unheard. The thick shroud of fog dissipated as he neared; no longer was she cloaked in mists and shadows, and he could admire the glow of moonlight on her skin once more, follow with his eyes the tiny droplets of water that rolled off her shoulders and down the silken flesh of her back.

At last he was close enough to touch her; he could reach out, close his hands over her hips, draw her down to him. But instead he quietly set the soap and comb he had brought beside her, and withdrew his hand, waiting, watching her in this unguarded moment. The sultry heat of the water coaxed forth the soft scent of the soap, teasing his nose with the sweet fragrance of lavender. And hers - he heard her delicate sniff, watched her shoulders grow stiff. She uncurled her arms, braced her hands at her sides, but her right hand came down directly upon the small bar of soap. She lifted it hesitantly, inhaling the fragrance. Then her head jerked around, wide, shocked eyes alighting on him.

Had she been in a different state of mind, she might have fled, scrambled away from him, forced him to chase her. Instead she could only freeze as he lifted himself onto the rock beside her, trembling as he cupped her face in his hands, her eyes squeezing shut against the sight of him as he bent to brush a tender kiss to the top of her head.

"Why?" she whispered. " _Why_?" Such a pitiful, resigned sound. She didn't understand; she could only mourn her failed attempt at escape.

But the only answer he had would alarm her, and he wanted to ease her out of her fear, her misery, not incite a fresh burst of it. He rearranged himself to sit behind her, stretching out his long legs on either side of her, the heat of his body a shield against the chill of the air. With exquisite care he settled his hands on her slender shoulders, gentling her to his touch. He scraped the tangled mass of her wet hair over her shoulder, trailing his fingertips across the back of her neck, down the silky flesh of her back, feeling her ribcage expand with her heavy breaths.

Long minutes elapsed; she waited in the tense silence as if expecting a blow. Instead she received a kiss, laid with sweet, undemanding pressure at the nape of her neck. He felt the shudder that slipped down her spine, the gooseflesh that rose on her folded arms, chased it away with the heat of his fingers.

He waited out her tension, soothing it away a bit at a time, until finally he was satisfied she no longer cowered from him but instead rested silently, passively accepting the soothing strokes of his fingers. Her breathing had evened, her panic had faded to cautious hesitance, but he sensed any wrong move he made might propel her back into flight. So instead he drew his hands away, grabbed the comb, began to work it gently through her tangled hair, and spoke to her, softly, evenly.

"When I realized, this morning, that you had run, I was...terrified." The comb snagged on a knot; he picked at it carefully until it gave. "Anything might have happened to you. Do you know what that's like, to worry for someone like that?"

Her tremulous voice sounded as if she had cried herself hoarse. "Not as bad, I imagine, as thinking someone dead."

He winced; point well made. But he continued anyway - she would have her turn later. "My mind concocted thousands of ills that might have befallen you, every one of them my fault for having driven to you flee. I hardly dared to hope that I would find you here, safe, unharmed." The comb slid through her hair smoothly at last, unhindered by knots, and he set it aside. Absent the gentle pressure of his fingers, that tension had gathered once again in her shoulders.

"I'm fine," she said in a dull little voice. "I told you I would be. You didn't have to come after me. You can leave."

Clearly she hoped that he would, but she was so far from _fine_ that the words caused an ache in his chest. Her body was well; it was her heart that was damaged.

"We still need to talk, Penelo."

"No, _please_ -" Her voice broke on the plea, and he broke with it; dragging her back against his chest, cradling her in his arms, stroking her hair, surrounding her with the heat of his body. She tried to curl in on herself, but he would have none of it, gently prying her trembling limbs from around herself until he had managed to drape her across his lap, her head pressed against his shoulder, her chest heaving with the effort to hold back her sobs.

"Hush," he murmured in her ear. "Hush, darling. There's no need for that, I promise you." One of his hands swept over her back in smooth, even circles, the other cupped the back of her head, massaging the tight muscles in her neck. Her breath came quick and hot against his throat; he grazed his lips over her cheek. "There now, sweet," he soothed as she went lax, surrendered. Poor, tormented girl - what she must think of him! She had to be reeling, having been chased down by the man she wanted nothing more than to escape. But she deserved to have her burden lifted from her shoulders, deserved the chance to repay him for her anguish, to make him suffer as she had. And he suffered already, although perhaps she did not know it, cut to threads by each helpless tremor that shook her, each ragged breath that passed her lips.

She turned her face into his shoulder and eased closer, and he didn't flatter himself that he had succeeded in comforting her.

"You're cold," he said. She shrugged, just a tiny lift of her shoulders, as if her body betrayed her with its lassitude.

"It doesn't matter." Just a tiny whisper of sound. Weariness had settled into her bones; she couldn't muster the energy to care. About anything. She was just so tired, so overwhelmed. Her skin had prickled with gooseflesh again, and his hands could not soothe it away, and she didn't care any longer. "I just want to forget." She was weak, so weak. She had been strong once, she knew that, but that strength had been siphoned from her soul until all that was left was a cringing, awkward creature afraid of anything that threatened her fragile security, the pitiful armor she had gathered around herself. His very reappearance had divested her of it, and she resented him for exposing the pathetic excuse for a woman she had become in his absence. Her eyes closed, wishing she could just drift away. Whatever he intended didn't matter anymore.

And then he was lifting her, rearranging her in his arms, lowering both of them into the warm water below, and the heat poured over her, soaking into her limbs. He sat on a low outcropping of rock beneath the water which lapped low on his chest, cradling her against him, her breasts pressed tight to his chest. A frisson of awareness crept up her spine as she felt the changing contours of his body beneath her bottom, registered the significance with a skitter of alarm.

"Natural reaction, given the circumstances," he murmured at her ear. She wriggled a bit in his arms, and he sucked in a breath, squeezing her to still her, his voice dropping an octave. "Just don't...move like that," he rumbled. "Dangerous. Unless you wish to find yourself flat on your back."

Her eyes opened wide, mouth rounding into a little 'o' of surprise. She ought to have scrambled away, retreated, but it would provoke another skirmish, she was sure. She didn't want that; she couldn't bear another battle, especially one she had no chance of winning. She wanted only to forget, to drift away, and he...he...he could _make_ her forget, even if only temporarily. She seized on the thought, warming to it, welcoming the languid heat that settled low in her belly. A desperate grasp at an escape, perhaps, but then, she _was_ desperate. When she had been in his bed a year before, he had managed to drive every other thought from her head until nothing had existed but him. He could do it again; he _would_ do it again - she wanted the release he could provide. No, he _owed_ it to her.

So she shifted her legs, straddled him, wriggled again. Whispered, "Yes."

His piercing green eyes narrowed on her face, his hands clenched on her hips, holding her still. "Don't think for one second I don't know what you're up to, darling."

One of her hands fisted in his hair, she melted against him, whispering at his lips, "I just want to forget. Just for a while. You _can_ make me forget, can't you, Balthier? Please." With her other hand, she pried loose one of his from her hips, carrying it to her breast, pressing it against the full, supple weight of her. As if of its own accord, his fingers cupped her, molded around her, learning the shape of her again, and she shuddered, trembled, yielded.

He hissed, as if heat of her skin had burned him. "We're still going to talk." But one of his hands had clenched in her hair, drawing her head to the side to press his lips to the curve of her throat, and her breath sighed out. Pain slipped away beneath the onslaught of pleasure; there was no room in her for both to exist at once. But he retreated, released her hair, stared into her eyes. "Your agreement, darling. I'll have it before this goes any further."

"Yes. Yes." Her eyes were luminous, sparkling, deceitful. A lie. Of course he knew it was; she would use him for her pleasure, for the few moments of forgetfulness she craved, and then abandon him as he had abandoned her. But her hand slid down his chest, over his abdomen, grasped him, stroked him. He shuddered, thoughts scattering. With effort he snatched at them - she would not escape him; she was years too young, too inexperienced, to pull the stunt she would attempt, and after her earlier flight he would be prepared for it.

He fumbled behind him on the jutting surface of the rock for the soap, found it, worked it between his hands until it foamed into a rich, fragrant lather, then cast it aside. He slid his soapy fingers up her arms; she rolled her shoulders beneath them, arching into the caress. His hands slid down her ribcage, thumbs coming to rest beneath her upthrust breasts, teasing the soft lower curves, fingers splaying over her back, arching her to his seeking mouth. Beautiful, darling girl that she was, she lifted to help him, gasping as his fingers caught her hips, dragging her close and tight, rocking her against him.

She caught his hair in the fingers of one hand, raking his scalp, purring her delight as his lips closed over her nipple, suffusing her with heat and pleasure. And below the water, her opposite hand still moved on him, a maddening, steady rhythm that stoked his need. He knew he was breathing as if he'd run for miles, but her delicate fingers on him were more than he could bear. She had always reduced him to this; beneath her hands he was weak, helpless but to please her, to let her please him. He needed her to put him out of his misery, to take him inside her and kill him with the sweet clutch of her body, her sighs in his ear, her breath on his throat.

She was squirming, gasping, ready, her body lush and perfect. Carefully he eased her hand away from his aching flesh, hushing her protest, drawing her up tight against his chest, holding her hips to steady her.

"Ease down, sweet, and take me," he crooned at her ear. "Yes, darling girl, that's it...you are beautiful, glorious." He knew he was rambling, but she was sinking little by little over him, sheathing him in the heat of her body by careful degrees, her tight, velvety inner muscles yielding so slowly to the demands of his body. And he...he was sure he would die before she took him completely; her cautious descent was torturous - already he was straining against the desire to plunge into her, to clench her hips in his hands and drive himself into her.

But her fingers clenched on his shoulders, as if the pressure of his entry was just this side of painful. She bit her lip; he stroked her back, nuzzled her throat, whispered praise in her ear. And finally, finally she came to rest, trembling with exertion, panting.

It had been difficult for her, but she had been determined to take him, and now she wilted against his chest, struggling to adjust to him once again - it had been a year, and she was as small, as tight, as unpracticed as she had been then. So he soothed her, kissed her forehead, her cheek, her shoulder, denied his own desires, instead to comfort her. And then she moved, testing the tight fit of their bodies, and beneath her he writhed, clutched her hips, drew in a sharp, tortured breath. She readjusted, pushing on his shoulders for support, lifting herself carefully, sinking down in a slow, steady stroke, rose again.

"You wonderful, wicked girl," he breathed at her lips, holding her hips, trying to help her ease into a rhythm. But she had found her own, and she defied his guidance, moving over him in luscious cadence, a succubus demanding her due, her every motion an order he was only too willing to fulfill.

She struggled towards the peak of pleasure, carrying him with her, until finally her last reserves of strength gave out and she collapsed with a tiny sound of dismay. "No, I was almost -" Her lips trembled, so frustrated, looking as though she might cry at the loss, pleasure snatched away before she could grasp it.

"Sweet, you cannot think I would leave you unsatisfied," he grated. And he surged to his feet from beneath her, pinning her back against the rock, entering her on a solid thrust that forced a breathless, shocked cry from her lungs. He hooked his arms beneath her knees, holding her still for his driving lunges. He was rough with her, determined, all unleashed passion, but she didn't care, couldn't think beyond the approaching pinnacle of fulfillment. She could only drape her arms around his neck, dig her nails into him and ride out the storm.

Each surge of his hips seemed to bring him deeper inside of her, like a promise, a stake of claim. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his face was a mask of single-minded desire, eyes blazing hot on her face, and she writhed beneath the scorching pleasure he forced on her until the tidal wave crested, broke over her, dragging her under with a high, broken cry. Distantly she was aware of his own groan of satisfaction, his hard-muscled body suddenly heavy on hers, the rough, affectionate rub of his cheek on hers, his lips pressed to her temple in silent reverence. Her eyes slid closed as aftershocks gave way to exhausted lassitude, her limbs going boneless, heavy and immovable. His hands slipped beneath her, drawing her close, and she managed a soft, unsteady sound of protest.

But he merely bussed his lips against her forehead as he gathered her into his arms, murmuring, "Shh, darling. Sleep. I've got you."

That was what she was afraid of...but she hadn't the energy left to protest further. Beckoning darkness hovered, and she could no longer fight the welcoming embrace of sleep.

\--

She awoke with the chill of the wind on her bare back, lying on the grassy bank of the hot spring, resting in the circle of Balthier's arms. He was asleep, it seemed; she didn't know how much time had passed, but it couldn't have been all that long - her hair was still wet, the breeze still nipped at stray droplets of water on her skin. He had carried her out of the spring at some point, she knew, because surely she hadn't had the strength to do so on her own. Shifting gingerly, she experienced a dull ache between her thighs, remnants of his abandoned ardor. She was sore, stiff, and she wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, to catch a few hours of rest and restore her strength, because her exhaustion wore on her still. But he would not sleep forever - the chill of the night air would wake him soon, and she needed to be gone before then. With any luck, he would simply give up and let her disappear at last.

Carefully she eased herself out of his arms, silently gathering up her clothing to don it hastily, silently. Only as she was working the ties of her top, she heard a dark chuckle, froze, turned to glance over at where she'd left him sleeping. But he was there no longer; he had risen without her notice at some point and had already donned his trousers, and was currently busy working the buttons of his shirt.

She shrank from him as he approached, a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold sliding down her spine.

"Have you forgotten your promise already, then?" he asked, in a deceptively mild tone. It was the silky, silvery voice of a man who knew he'd won. There was no need for him to chase her; he'd already caught her.

"No," she said. "I never intended to keep it. But you knew that, didn't you."

An indulgent look; he had expected her duplicity, anticipated it, and yet somehow did not hold it against her. It was the nature of trapped creatures to attempt escape. "Of course. Just as you ought to have known that I would not have let you leave." He held out his hand. "Come; it's a wonder you're even standing."

But she made no move to take it. She merely turned, looked over her shoulder into the distance, at the stretch of the land towards the freedom that was futile to wish for, now. Her shoulders slumped, defeated.

"We had a bargain, darling," he reminded her. "Whether you intended to keep it or not, I say it stands." He moved slowly, deliberately, catching up her hand and lacing his warm fingers through her cold ones. He did not wait for her assent, he simply began walking, pulling her after him.

She stumbled along after him like one condemned, but, really, what more could he do to her? She had already been destroyed. There was nothing left of her heart to hurt. It had already been flung at his feet and then dashed to pieces, leaving a gaping, raw wound in her chest that had never healed. Nothing he could say to her could possibly do any more damage than she had already suffered. So she would let him have his say; she could endure it as she had endured so much already. He had already left her in pieces; maybe then he would finally leave her in peace.


	20. Chapter 20

There was something incredibly wrong with her. He had never expected her to come along so docilely. But she hadn't made so much as a single sound of protest as he had escorted her back to the Strahl; she had merely followed him on unsteady legs like a lamb lead to the slaughter, her fingers cold and limp in the gentle clasp of his.

When they arrived, he had taken one look at her and knew that there would be no resolution in store for him tonight. She was shivering violently, the excess water on her skin having soaked through her thin clothing, inviting the cool ocean breeze to drift along and freeze her into an icicle. Gooseflesh prickled her skin all over; even her lips were tinged with blue. And her eyes were...blank. They blinked, but saw nothing. Like a doll's eyes, they were dull and lifeless. She had retreated to a place he could not reach, and this was something he had not anticipated - that she could be present physically, but absent mentally, emotionally. That she could run without actually ever leaving him.

She protested only once as he pulled her over the threshold of his room, a tiny, wordless cry of alarm, digging in her heels. But her strength was exhausted, and his determination to get her out of her wet clothes and tucked safely into bed overpowered her.

He rummaged through his drawers in search of some something to put her in, and she stood near the window, shivering. Finally he found a shirt - old, but worn to a supple softness that would not abrade her delicate skin. She did not protest as he undressed her and buttoned her into his shirt, but neither did she aid him. Gaze fixed longingly out the window - as if she would rather be anywhere but here, with him - she merely stood still and accepted his ministrations without fuss or complaint.

She smelled like an enchanting blend of lavender and the salty sea air, fresh and clean, the sweetness of the floral balanced in the tangy bite of the salt. The scent assailed him as stroked her hair back from her face - he wanted to bury his face in it, breathe her in. Her hair had mostly dried on the walk back to the Strahl, falling down her back in glorious disarray, a disheveled skein of blond waves. The wind had chafed her cheeks to a pink flush, the only spots of color in her otherwise bloodless face.

The shirt was huge on her, giving her a waifish appearance, cuffs dangling down over her hands, hem ending at mid-thigh. It aroused a primitive sort of satisfaction in him to have her clad in his shirt - like a mark of ownership, announcing ' _this one is mine_.' Perhaps she wasn't yet...but she would be.

He turned her, nudging her gently towards the bed, curved his warm hands over her shoulders, pressing lightly to urge her into it. After a moment's hesitation she did as he bid, sinking into the soft mattress. Her lashes fanned her cheeks, and a weary sigh escaped as her head touched the pillow. And he thought for a moment of how trying this day must have been for her - racing across the coast in a journey of several hours, the shock of his appearance, his less-than-gentle attentions...his insistence on bringing up all the things she had tucked away inside her. Surely one night of respite was in order - everything would keep until tomorrow. She was dead on her feet now; he would be a monster to force a conversation tonight.

He smoothed her hair away from her face, tucking the blanket around her shoulders. She hadn't stopped that wretched trembling, and he was no longer quite so sure it had anything to do with cold. Dread was the more likely culprit. Poor, dear girl, wearied to the point of exhaustion. Another sin she could lay at his feet.

"Please, just have done with it," she said in a ghostly little voice, and he winced to hear it. And he wondered what she expected to hear from him, that such desolation colored her tone. No doubt she expected nothing but recrimination, more humiliation at his hands.

"Not tonight," he said, and his voice was the soft croon that might be used to soothe a wounded animal. "Not tonight, darling girl."

He sat at the edge of the bed, tugging off his boots, dropping them haphazardly to the floor. He didn't dare remove anything else; he did not trust himself unclothed in bed with her and he had already shown a regrettable lapse in judgment tonight. He hadn't set out to seduce her at the hot spring - indeed, it would be more accurate to say that _she_ had seduced _him_ \- but she had been so glorious and eager and perfect. And it had been so long, and he had been weak. Or perhaps he was only weak with her...she _made_ him weak. But he could not countenance it again tonight; he suspected she hadn't had an entire night's rest since she'd left Rabanastre. She had been living on nerves, and it showed.

She jerked when he climbed into the bed beside her, pulling her knees up protectively as if she might be forced to defend herself against him. The movement wounded him, tugged on his heart. And he would have gathered her close if he didn't suspect it would push her over the edge, shatter her fragile composure. So instead he merely settled close to her, so close she could feel the heat of his body, his warmth seeping into her, chasing away the chill that had soaked into her bones. His hand slipped over her pillow, stroking her soft, fine hair.

By slow degrees, her tension faded, shooed away by the encroaching shadows of sleep. And just before she fell into it, she gave a tiny, wistful sigh that said to him more than words ever could have. The sound pierced him; his hands clenched against the desire to hold her, to wrap her securely in his arms, to banish the anxiety, the fears that haunted her.

But he held himself back for her sake - after all, he was at the heart of them.

\--

Sometime in the night, Balthier felt Penelo's body go rigid beside him, tense and trembling, heard her make a tiny whimpering sound in the back of her throat. He curved one hand over her hip, the other sliding over the nape of her neck, surprised to find the hair there soaked in a cold sweat. She made another pitiful sound - he had heard the like before, on the coast last year when she had been in the torturous grip of fever dreams, nightmares of the night her family had perished.

He hurt for her, cuddled her close, murmuring words of comfort in her ear. Her arms had curled to her chest, fingers curved into claws, nails digging at the soft flesh of her throat, her chest, as if she were trying to tear out her breaking heart before she choked on it. Carefully he pried them away, lacing his fingers through hers, bringing them to his lips. But she thrashed restlessly, arching away from him, resisting the reassurance he offered.

And she cried out in a broken, pleading tone, " _Balthier_!"

He froze, for a moment uncomprehending. And then a dark, wrenching tide of guilt and remorse swept over him - she didn't dream of fire, of her family's last moments...she dreamed of _him_. Nightmares of him had eclipsed those of her family, tied her into unconscious knots of fear and pain.

Each despairing gasp, each shudder was a knife through his heart, twisting in jagged jerks, rending him to threads. He pinned her beneath him with one leg thrown over her hips to restrict her restless thrashing, to calm her. His hands cradled her face, holding her still. He covered her mouth with his, muffling her anguished cries, drawing them from her lungs before they could escape, taking her distress into himself to bear it in her stead. Hot tears seeped from beneath her lashes, coating her cheeks in salty wetness. Against his chest he felt the panicked flutter of her heartbeat.

Gradually she ceased attempting to strain away from him, as the nightmare ceded its grip to wakefulness. He felt it in the softening of her lips beneath his, the way her neck relaxed and her head fell into the cradle of his hands.

"A nightmare," he whispered roughly. "Only a nightmare." He swept away the remnants of the tears from her cheeks, touched his forehead to hers, but her breath still came in fierce, ragged bursts.

"This room...I can't...I can't breathe in here..." The words were forced out between gasps.

Of course - _his_ room. She had not wanted to be within it, after all. He rolled away, hauling her into his arms covers and all, managed to work the door knob, taking her across the hall to her own room. He flipped a switch and she blinked against the sudden influx of light. Setting her at the edge of the bed in a rumpled mound of blankets, he took her cold hands in his, going to a knee on the floor before her, like a supplicant at the feet of a princess.

"Tell me," he said. "About your nightmare."

She shook her head furiously, the shadowy smudges beneath her eyes stark in her pale face.

"You cried out for me." He had tried to keep his voice well-modulated, even, calming - but even he heard the betraying huskiness in it, the emotion that had welled in his chest when he had realized the nature of her nightmare.

"No." But she whispered her denial.

"Yes," he insisted. "You did. Penelo -" He released her hands to reach for her, but she swatted them away, breaking free from the prison of blankets to scramble away from him, making a mad dash for the door. But he was closer, and faster, and before she could get it open he flattened his palm against the door, leaning his weight into it.

"Stop running," he chided, frustration coloring his tone. "It won't do you a damn bit of good, you know that." He brushed her fingers away from the doorknob, grabbed her shoulder, turned her around to face him. "You're better than this. I would never have taken you for a _coward_."

Her shoulders stiffened, bright spots of angry color burned in her cheeks - but her anger was preferable to her desolation, her emptiness. If he had to provoke her to anger to bring forth a response, so be it.

"You can call it cowardice," she said in a furious whisper. "I prefer to call it self-preservation."

He scoffed. "You've never demonstrated any such proclivity before. Why begin now?"

A flood of high color washed over her; he thought she might actually take a swing at him. But her livid gaze met his unflinchingly, and she was beautiful and incensed and once again full of life.

" _You_ turned me into a coward! _I_ _hate_ _you_!" She shrieked it at him like a fishwife, exploding into a flurry of flailing fists, more designed to vent her rage than to do actual damage.

Good. That was good. She had been holding too much in, and it had been all too much for her to manage, and she had been cracking under the strain. He accepted the meager blows as his due - he had deserved her rage, her scorn. She had been so mired in shame - an emotion that rightly belonged to him - that she had been unable to give rise to the underlying anger she ought to have felt.

"I wasted a _year_ mourning for you, you miserable bastard! I might have wasted the rest of my life! Didn't you care for me, even a little? Enough to let me be free of you?" Her small fists thumped his chest, pitiful as blows went. "I didn't need you to stay. I could have been happy if you had left. But how could I have been happy when you were dead? _How was I supposed to go on_?" Those furious eyes threatened to give way to tears once more, and she blinked them back resolutely...but she was _glowing_. She was glorious. She glared at him, skewering him with her wrath. "I don't even know who I am anymore," she said in a choked voice. "You've turned me into someone I don't recognize."

She had done the same to him, but it had been a change for the better. Perhaps she had been changing him into a better version of himself all along, with her sly wit, with her incessant prying, with her gentle hands, with her soft eyes, softer heart. She hadn't even known it was happening, because she had not set out to change him - he had changed himself _because_ of her rather than having been changed _by_ her. She had not forced him to fit into her mold; rather, he was growing to fill it.

She swiped at her eyes, staring at him rebelliously, mutinously. "I _hate_ you," she muttered again.

"You don't," he said.

Her temper pricked once again, she shoved at his chest, accomplished nothing. "Don't presume to tell me what I feel!"

"You wouldn't waste such emotion on someone you hated," he responded. "You're understandably angry with me, but you don't _hate_ me, darling girl."

" _Don't_ call me that! You don't have the right -"

"I have every right in the world. You _gave_ me that right when you came to my bed." He boxed her in, towering over her. She pressed herself flat against the door, lifting her chin in silent challenge. He liked her best like this, hissing and spitting like an angry kitten, all flushed cheeks and mussed hair and vibrant eyes.

He lowered his voice to a husky murmur. "You gave me that right tonight at the hot spring. _You_ took _me_ , darling -"

" _Stop_!" All of the blushes he had missed in the past year were determined to come out tonight, staining her cheeks with hot color. "If you are any sort of gentleman, you will stop right there."

"I've never laid claim to that title. In fact, I actively discourage it the vast majority of the time." One corner of his mouth lifted in an insolent smirk. "But if it offends your _delicate sensibilities_ , I shall leave off." And he chuckled, stroking her flushed cheek as her eyes snapped blue fire at him. "I should have provoked you from the first."

Her brows drew together in irritated bewilderment. " _What_? You...you..."

"I've made a bit of a tactical error. When you're angry, you let your restraints slip, you vent all the things you've bottled up and denied. I made the mistake of coddling you when you needed to be pushed instead. You wanted to run and hide yourself away, but it wasn't what you _needed_. No, darling, you _needed_ to let loose your anger, to place it where it belonged. With me." He sighed, a sound of pure, honest relief. She would be all right - she only needed to refocus her emotions, to let him shoulder the blame he rightly deserved instead of directing it inwards, where it had served only to torment her. "You deserved better."

"It could have been avoided entirely if you hadn't -"

" _No_ ," he said fiercely. "You deserved _better_. In all ways, in all things, you deserved better than me. _That_ is why I didn't take you with me when I left. _That_ is why I let you believe I had died. It was kinder, I thought, than leaving you. And even leaving you was infinitely preferable to taking you with me and letting you discover how unworthy I was, to giving you nothing but regrets." He touched his forehead to hers; there was nowhere for her to retreat to, and so she could not rebuff the tender gesture. "You were never meant for me, but I was too selfish not to make a grab for you. I have always been a greedy, grasping bastard; I have never been a _good_ man, and I'm unlikely ever to be. And I'm _still_ selfish enough to want you anyway."

Her small hands flattened on his chest, simply resting as though she couldn't decide between pushing him away and pulling him closer. Her eyes were wide and wary, distrustful. But she didn't flinch when he brushed his lips across her cheek, when his arms drew her close. So slowly, like a butterfly testing a surface before it fully lighted, she rested her cheek upon his chest, took the comfort he offered. Then again, he was all that was available, and beggars couldn't be choosers. She needed to be held, to be petted and soothed. She needed someone else to be strong for her, so that she could fall to pieces if she felt the need, and let someone else deal with putting her back together again.

"Do you remember that night on the Phon Coast a year ago when you had gone off to the hot spring alone, and I shouted at you for it?" he asked in a low voice. His fingers traced gentle patterns on her back, feeling the delicate outline of her shoulder blades, the dip at the small of her back. She gave a short nod.

"You told Ashe that you hadn't considered that anyone might worry for you, because you had been responsible for yourself for so long." One had cupped the back of her head, stealing into the soft, fair hair, tangling his fingers in it. "It was the same for me. I never considered that you would grieve for me. No one else would have."

She took a trembling breath, her fingers curling, nails scraping across the linen of his shirt. "I broke, Balthier," she said in a small, lost-little-girl voice. And perhaps she _was_ a lost little girl, just as he had once been a lost little boy. But she had found him, rescued him, and he would do no less. Whether she knew it or not, she needed him, just as he had needed her.

"I just...broke." Her shoulders hunched, such a gesture of vulnerability. She was still broken; the damage he had wrought could not be repaired overnight. Her breath sighed out heavily, her cheek pressed against his chest, a few wayward strands of her hair tickled his jaw.

"I couldn't have taken you with me," he said again. "You deserved to be celebrated, to be feted, to live a life of leisure for once. To experience everything Ashe could offer. You deserved to have _everything_."

"It was a prison. A cage."

Despite himself, his lips quirked. "With silks and gems, gowns and balls?"

She laughed without mirth, in discordant, flat tones. "A gilded cage is still just a cage," she said.

And he rested his chin atop her head, considering that. She had always been so much wiser than her years would ordinarily suggest. He might have squeezed her a bit too tightly, for she made a muffled protest, pushing away from him fractionally.

"Please, I'm very tired. I'd like to go to bed."

Reluctantly, he released her, easing away to give her a bit of space, breathing room. After a moment in which he made no move to leave, she cleared her throat awkwardly and repeated, "I'm going to bed."

He shrugged. "By all means."

She twisted her fingers, worrying her lower lip between even, white teeth. "Alone...?"

He shook his head gravely, eliciting a bright flash of annoyance from her.

"What, do you think I'll run off again?"

"Yes. Will you?"

Somehow, his candor surprised her. Her brows jerked skyward, her mouth dropped open. Finally her chin lifted in defiance, and she said, "I haven't decided yet."

That was fair; he could hardly expect her forgiveness, but at least it seemed that he had earned her honesty. "Then forgive me my caution. I will sleep easier knowing you are safe."

Her eyes slid away from his. " _I_ won't sleep at all," she muttered.

He smothered a grin, but his eyes glinted with amusement anyway, and she shifted uncomfortably, tugging the hem of the shirt down, feeling suddenly exposed. But even that gesture was telling, and she felt, with a prickle of awareness, his eyes skimming her bare legs.

Flustered, she retreated, snapping, "Fine. I don't care what you do. Just...just don't bother me." And she scrambled onto the far side of the bed, turning her back on him with a petulant flounce, curling into a ball beneath the covers until all that was visible of her was a hank of her bright hair spread across the pillows.

He had found her fit of pique endearing, but somehow he did not imagine that she would appreciate that knowledge. So he restrained himself from goading her further, switched off the light, and slid into the bed beside her. He did not touch her - he had already trespassed enough this night - but she tensed anyway as if in expectation of it.

And he sighed. "Sleep, darling girl. I will keep your nightmares at bay."

\--

She floated on a sea of contentment, the gentle waters comprised of downy blankets and plush pillows, cushioning her, embracing her in feathery, insulating warmth. She drowsed, loath to emerge from her nest of perfect tranquility, peaceful forgetfulness. Here, nothing could intrude upon her healing hibernation, and the worries and fears that had plagued her waking hours seemed to drift elusively out of reach, slipping through her fingers like water through a sieve. She let them go, giving herself over to the easy current, letting it carry her away.

Gradually the current grew stronger, cottony-softness giving way to heat and the even, deliberate caress of fingers upon her bare skin. They moved in carefully measured beats, a song of perfect, light strokes sliding up her back, whispering over her arms, playing over her shoulders. They lingered there, between her shoulder blades, the delicate touch searching out the tightness of knotted muscles, exerting a cautious pressure in the exact place the tension gathered, kneading it away until she went lax with a shuddering sigh as the slight discomfort eased into relief. A warm hand cupped the back of her neck, gentling her, searing an apology into her skin.

He bent, and breathed her lavender scent into his lungs as he pressed his lips to the exposed nape of her neck just above the place his hand rested. She made a soft sound in her throat, neither acceptance or rejection, and he marveled at how perfectly she fit under his hands, as though she had been molded to fit them. Every part of her filled them in exact perfect proportions, in a way that ought not to have been possible but somehow was, because she made it so.

After her, anyone else would be just a poor substitute. She filled all of his empty spaces, had stolen into his mind...his heart. He closed his eyes in silent amazement as time spun away, floating off into eternity, slowing, coming to a world-shattering halt.

He loved her. Maybe he had always loved her. Maybe he had been falling in love with her a bit at a time until at last there had been no part of him that hadn't belonged to her, had been no corner of his heart in which she could not be found. There was no singular moment in which he could say, ' _this is when I fell in love_ ,' rather it felt as if he had always loved her, as if from the very first moment he'd met her his heart had known her intimately. There was a sort of terrible irony in it; that this small slip of a girl had felled him as no one before her had ever managed, that she alone could make him writhe in an agony of despair or lift him to the heights of ecstasy.

It was all there, in the lush curve of her lower lip, the thick fringe of her lashes as they fanned her cheeks. The sprinkling of cinnamon freckles over her slim shoulders, the way the sun caught in her hair, imbued it with sparkling incandescence. How the moonlight turned her to a sultry, glowing fey creature. The dip at the base of her spine, the flat, smooth plane of her stomach, the clasp of her slender, soft legs around his waist, the kneading and prickling of her nails upon his skin, the sweet curve of her chin. It was in the lash of her anger, the sly cut of her dry wit, the grace and subtle beauty she exemplified, the boundless kindness she bestowed upon those who had earned her favor, the effortless way she had soothed and tamed him. The myriad things that had caught him, trapped him until he lived and breathed only for her.

His heart restarted with a lurch, beating fast and furious in his chest. And the words to tell her lodged in his throat, clawing to escape. But he clenched his jaw against them, because he knew she would not believe them. Not now. In the future perhaps, but not now. He had so much to make up for, so much to give her before she might at last be prevailed upon to find him worthy of her.

And he pressed his lips once again to the nape of her neck, just the barest touch upon the smooth perfection of her skin, as if he could pour the whole of his heart into her through it.

But she had felt the difference between the first kiss and the last, and did not understand it, and feared it. She whispered, "Balthier?" in a trembling, uncertain little voice.

She did not see his wry smile. And he forced the words back down into his heart and willed them to stay concealed for the time being. And he murmured only, "It's nothing, darling girl."


	21. Chapter 21

Balthier had begun to terrify her. It wasn't what he said so much as what he _didn't_ say, the things she sensed roiling beneath the solicitous surface he showed her. He seemed to delight in provoking her from wary hesitation to outraged indignation, and in the next moment, kissing her fury into breathless passion. But he never trespassed further than a few torrid kisses. His hands never strayed below her shoulders; he preferred to tangle them in her hair, to cup the back of her neck in his palm, to feather his fingers across her cheeks or along her throat. And then he would withdraw, never mind that she had been straining against him, balanced precariously upon her toes in an effort to get closer. And he would gently disentangle her clutching limbs from him and leave her to shiver in the violent, unfulfilled aftermath of his ardor.

She hadn't made another break for freedom, and she didn't truly understand why. But she really didn't care to examine her decision to stay too closely; it had seemed to her that it had never been a definitive choice she had made at any one particular time, but rather a constant sequence of small extensions she had granted, made from moment to moment, always with the option of flight in the back of her mind. And yet still, she had stayed. She had continued to stay, time and again, over the course of the past week.

With the exception of that one night, he had made no attempt to seek out her bed again. And she didn't know what to make of that, because he kissed her as if he were starving, and on occasion she had caught him staring at her with a feral, hungry look in his eyes that had made her blush and stammer beneath its heat. And he took any opportunity that arose to touch her, the heat of his hands burning her even through her clothing. The only time he did _not_ see fit to make free with his caresses was when he kissed her, although while his hands remained chaste his mouth was nothing less than wicked on hers.

She had the uneasy feeling that he had some nefarious scheme in mind, that despite his assertions that he was merely taking her on a leisurely tour of the world, to give her the freedom of exploration, it was all merely a cover for his true intentions, which lingered between them, unvoiced.

She didn't understand him. She didn't know if she even cared to. But when he kissed her, for long moments she forgot everything that had happened in the past year, and she longed for the sweet oblivion that passion could provide. And still he proved as irritating and contrary as ever, denying both of them for reasons she could not fathom. It made her cagey, nervous - she had never known quite what to expect with him, but he seemed to be waiting for something, anticipating something...something from her. And each time he pulled her under his spell with those sweet, drugging kisses, she tingled with pleasure, prickled with a heightened sense of his impatience, confusion and desire mingled, jolting through her veins like a subtle strike of lightning.

Whatever it was he was waiting for, he wouldn't wait forever.

\--

With each day that passed, she glowed a little more, her periods of melancholy and silent introspection growing fewer and farther between as the exotic destinations he took her to breathed life and peace into her like a blacksmith's bellows, stoking the embers of her smothered spirit into flame once more.

She did not love him. Or if she did still, it was buried so deeply inside her that he had not yet unearthed it. Certainly she didn't trust him. She hovered like a wary bird, too fearful to perch near him, treating him with all the caution such a bird might show a hungry cat. So patiently he lured her with breadcrumbs - kisses, smiles, tender touches - waiting for her to settle her ruffled feathers and land, taming her to his hand, bribing her to come closer, offering her a feast of idyllic days spent in a paradise of freedom and high winds, skies sprinkled with stars uncountable, vibrant golden sunsets and delicate pastel sunrises.

She did not love him. But she had stayed nonetheless, and he had rewarded her generosity with little kindnesses and big ones, a small vial of lavender water, assortments of hair ribbons, jewelry and books that had thought she might like, breakfasts in exotic places, lunches he had prepared himself in the small kitchen of the Strahl, dinners under the stars, on the banks of flowing rivers. She accepted his gifts with some hesitation each time, seeming not to understand that they came without strings, without expectations. She did not know what to make of him and his strange behavior - it wasn't simply that she doubted his sincerity, it was that she had no concept of courtship whatsoever. Or if she had, she had certainly never expected it from him, and therefore did not recognize it as such. And so she was suspicious of his intentions, because he had never been a man to give when there was no benefit, without promise of future repayment. She did not understand that he wanted only the pleasure that lit her face, the gently arching brows that signaled her surprise, the high flush of color that bloomed in her cheeks with each small token he bestowed upon her.

She accepted his kisses with no hesitation whatsoever, each time her clinging fingers urging him to tarry a little longer, to trespass a little further. She did not know how difficult it was becoming for him to draw away, to end it there and no further. And perhaps he was tormenting them both, but he wanted her to be a little off-balance, to wonder why he had not taken her to his bed. He wanted her to reach the conclusion on her own that he was not using her, that his interest in her went deeper than the physical.

She wanted him, but with the greedy desire of a child who knows a toy is soon to be snatched away - she wanted to take him, use him, and get her fill of him before he was lost to her. She wanted to live purely in the moment, she harbored no hopes and no dreams, because she feared any foundation she attempted to build might crumble beneath her. He understood, and he accepted - he could offer her no words of comfort or assurance that she would believe. She was still trapped, still caged, and until he could discover the means to break her free, she would remain that frightened little bird, unsure where to land. And so he would build a nest for her, and line it with the threads of his love, and hope that one day she would settle into it, and trust him.

She did not love him. Not yet. But she didn't have to love him - for now, it was enough that he loved her. All he needed her to do was to let him.

\--

"There is somewhere I want to take you."

The soft words floated over her on the breeze, pulling her from the silent, blissful reverie she had enjoyed. Sprawled out on her stomach, she laid at the edge of a great cliff, overlooking the Paramina Rift passageway. From this height, she could see far into the distance, over the cresting treetops of the Golmore Jungle. The winds gathered here, whipping her hair away from her face, and she was struck with the rapturous feeling of discovery. She wanted to traverse every inch of these wild lands, to stray from the safe paths and climb mountains instead, to find vantage points that had never before been discovered. She wanted to ferret out all of Ivalice's secrets. And then she wanted to find new lands, to forge new paths, to walk upon grasses that had grown since ancient times and yet had never before experienced footfalls.

So far, Balthier had made good on his promise to take her anywhere she wished. He had seemed taken with her joy in the world, and he had encouraged her desire to explore it. Sometimes he asked her where she wanted to go, and sometimes he merely set a course for a place he thought she would like, but always he let her experience it for herself, and followed rather than lead. This, however, was the first time he had ever made an announcement like this, in a strangely hesitant, uncertain tone. She didn't know what it signified.

"Where?" she asked.

A sort of wry, sheepish smile. "If I tell you, you might not wish to go."

She rolled onto her back, supporting herself on her elbows to see him better. The wind teased loose tendrils of her hair across her face, stinging her cheeks.

"Where?" she repeated, but he shook his head.

"Come without knowing," he said. "Come because it is a place that none besides myself have ever been. Come because your sense of adventure demands it."

He was asking for a tiny bit of her trust, willingly given. And she knew that if she refused, he would accede to her wishes and never mention it again. And she knew also that he could simply have taken her wherever he wished and given her no choice at all. For some reason, he wanted her to choose, to take a small step towards him. And though his insistence made her feel uneasy, she found herself saying, "All right," in a whisper-soft voice, and feeling as though she had surrendered something terribly important.

And he pulled her to her feet, away from the edge of the cliff, and walked with her back to the Strahl.

"It's not far," he said. "We'll reach it by dusk." He smoothed her windswept hair. "It is, however, exposed to the elements, and the wind is brisk today. You'll want something warmer than that."

He gestured vaguely to her blue silk outfit, one of the ones that had been delivered from the seamstress' shop in Balfonheim, which he by turns admired and abhorred. He admired it when they were alone, when his gaze could slide like water from the lower hem of the top, which gathered just beneath her breasts, to where the low-slung pants began, baring what he imagined to be miles of silky golden skin. He abhorred it when they passed through settlements, and he had caught other men regarding her in the exact way he did, and was forced to glare them into submission. Of this, she had not seemed to be aware.

She _was_ , however, acutely aware of his gaze upon her, seemed to stretch and blossom beneath it. She watched him watch her with a wide range of mixed emotions - surprise, wariness, confusion, satisfaction. Even now, she rolled her shoulders in a way that invited his hands, clasped her hands behind her and rose up onto her toes, a graceful movement that thrust her breasts upwards, as if pleading for the pressure of his hands, his mouth.

He would not be manipulated into such a thing, but...

He eased forward, grabbing her clasped hands behind her back in his larger one, manacling them together with light, firm pressure so she could not break free, because she liked to incite him with those soft hands and he was no longer altogether certain how well he could bear it. And with his free hand he lifted her pointed little chin, and bent to brush his mouth over hers. She followed when he would have retreated, breathing his name against his lips in a trembling plea. Those luminous, glowing eyes were half-shaded by the lids, her lips so soft and sweet and yielding. He smiled against them, and softened his rejection with the slow, affectionate stroke of his cheek on hers. Irritated, pouting, she drifted down onto her feet again, and he released her captured hands.

He smoothed away the sullen frown that had settled between her brows with his forefinger. "Change," he said.

And he left her alone in the corridor, with the queer sense of a double meaning in the word lingering in the air.

\--

The Strahl docked as the sun made its descent, just barely touching its bottom curve to the ocean, painting the sky in rich, golden colors. The blue-purple night seeped in above, chasing the remnants of daylight toward the horizon.

They were on an island, a small, floating one in the great archipelago that made up the sky continent of Dorstonis. She had been in this region of the world only once before, having been briefly held captive in the Lhusu Mines in Bhujerba, the largest city on the continent, but her rescue had been swift and she'd gotten to see precious little of the area.

This particular island was tiny and far higher up than the rest of the islands, which stretched below them in a massive, disordered sprawl. Landing the Strahl upon it had been a neat trick in itself, it was so small; she doubted that anyone else but Balthier would ever have attempted to do so, but then he had always been reckless.

The view was spectacular. Though the island was small, it was lush with soft grasses and sweet-smelling flowers, and she longed to crush them beneath her and breathe their perfume as she lay on her stomach and peered out over the edge, watching the rest of the world sail by beneath her.

But as she tripped off the dock in delight, her eyes caught on a small, smooth block of grey stone at the far side of the island, wrapped in creeping ivy. She stared at it, at the etching upon it, too far away to read it, but near enough to understand its import, and her smile faded to solemn awareness.

"Balthier?"

His hand covered her lower back, urging her forward.

"My sister," he said. "I wanted to bring you to meet her. She's not really _here_ , of course. There wasn't -" Here, his voice grew alarmingly husky with emotion. "There wasn't enough left of her to bury after our father -"

But her small hand slipped into his, squeezing with gentle reassurance.

"She would have liked it here, I think," he said. "She would have liked you." A moment's hesitation. "I've never brought anyone here before."

Her hand released his slowly, and she drifted toward the little gravestone. When he made to follow, she thrust a staying hand in his direction. "No; I'm going to talk to her. Alone. I can introduce myself, thank you."

So he waited, and took a seat upon the dock, and watched her clear the ivy away from the headstone, and kneel in the grasses before it. Her fingers traced the delicate lettering that read ' _Sarema Mieya Bunansa, Beloved Sister_.'

She settled back upon her bent legs, and for a moment she was still and silent. And when at last she began to speak, he could see her lips move, but she was too far away for him to hear her. As she spoke, she reached up and unwound the ribbon from her hair, letting it fall loose around her shoulders. She caught a small pink flower between her fingers, plucking it from the earth, twirling the long stem and laying it across her lap. Long minutes elapsed; several other flowers of varying shades and species had joined the one in her lap until they amassed into a small bundle. Finally she collected them, sorting them into a tidy bouquet, wrapping the stems with the hair ribbon and tying it into a neat bow. She brought the cluster of flowers to her face, breathing in the delicate scent, brushing her lips across the fragrant blooms.

Then, in a tender gesture of compassion, she laid the bouquet at the base of the headstone in such sweet tribute to a girl she had never known that Balthier felt the sting of tears behind his eyes.

"He loves you so much," Penelo whispered. "Everything he has done, everything, for years...it's all been for you."

A bittersweet pain pierced her heart, both for the tortured man and the girl who had so suffered. Why had Balthier brought her here? Why would he want to share this place, the place that he surely must hold sacred above all others, with her? She had expected to feel like an intruder, an unwelcome visitor, but instead...a soft breeze drifted across the back of her neck, easing her tension, tempering her confusion.

And she thought, perhaps Sarema was here after all. Her breath on the wind, her spirit in the glinting strains of fading sun, her eyes in the knowing glimmer of stars that had begun to sprinkle the falling night. Watching, waiting, listening, learning, remnants of her gentle soul lingering in the perfect peace of this place, a solitary princess in her bower, willing and eager to ease the burdens of those who came seeking comfort. A trusted confidant, someone who would accept secrets and never betray them.

"He carries so much guilt for what happened to you. Regret that he couldn't save you. I think you must have forgiven him already, but he can't forgive himself. I understand that, you know. I lost my family, and they were so precious to me." A shallow, gasping breath; a tiny shred of understanding that she had never before been able to achieve. "But they would have forgiven me, too, wouldn't they? I've been holding so tightly to them for years, but maybe that's not what they would have wanted. Maybe I have to forgive myself. Maybe I have to let them go."

A whisper of a draft across Penelo's forehead, the crooning whistle of wind in her ears like a benediction, a sweet assurance that there had never been anything to forgive, that her terrible guilt had always been misplaced and undeserved. Absolution. From herself, for herself. It was as if the wind had reached inside her, carefully plucking out the thorns of grief that had pierced her heart for years, cleansing the wounds of the bitter poison. It hurt, but she thought that the pain was necessary, vital for healing to begin. And the fresh, clean blood that flowed dredged up other wounds that she had wanted to keep buried, but somehow came spilling out unfettered.

"I feel like I don't understand anything anymore," Penelo sighed. Her shoulders slumped, her hands in her lap, twisting her fingers. In her mind she tried to conjure an image of what Sarema might look like, not as a child of twelve as she'd been when she'd died, but as she might if she'd lived.

She would be Penelo's age. Balthier had described her once, as a sweet, gentle girl. Green eyes, she decided, and hair maybe a shade or two lighter than Balthier's. She would be one of those delicate, demure ladies, without so much as a hair out of place, but perhaps her mouth would carry the echo of Balthier's wicked smile.

Would they have had anything in common? She, with her low origins, and Sarema, with her elegant upbringing. But Balthier had been certain that Sarema would have liked her. Why?

"What would you tell me, if you were here?" she mused. "What did he used to be like? Have you watched over him all these years?"

The wind stirred her hair, brushed a leafy green sprig of ivy over Sarema's name on the modest headstone.

"I wonder if you would have advice for me. You knew him best, didn't you? So tell me, is he trustworthy? Is he safe?"

Another gust of wind, like a burst of laughter from the heavens, and Penelo smiled despite herself. No, Balthier would never be _safe_. He would never be tame, never be content with a life of leisure. He could not be constrained by such trappings. He had suffocated under the weight of such things, just as she had. They were alike in so many ways.

"I'm afraid," she whispered, and was surprised by the sudden welling of tears. " _Oh_. I'm so afraid." She tipped her head back, letting the wind wick away the moisture with a comforting hand. Inside, she shivered with uncertainty, with trepidation.

"I'm...stuck. Like I'm mired in quicksand. I don't know if he intends to pull me out or let me drown, and, honestly, either option is equally terrifying. But it's as if the decision isn't his, it's mine, and I'm still just...stuck. I've forgotten how to move forward, and I can't move back. So what am I supposed to do?" Her voice broke, but the wind stroked along her shoulders, a soothing caress.

A quick glance over her shoulder; Balthier was watching her from a distance, his face unreadable, but she didn't think he would be able to hear her.

"I wonder if my family is there, wherever you are. Probably you don't move in the same circles, but...my parents need a daughter. My brothers need a sister. If you might look in on them from time to time, I'm sure they would be happy. And you're just my age. If you could look past them not being so very high in the world, I'm sure they would love you like their own. And I think you deserve a happy family at last. They are that, I promise you."

The wind at her back, like the teasing, playful nudge of a good friend. An assent, she was certain. And she managed a smile, brushing her fingertips once more over the engraved name on the headstone.

"I'll be back to visit you again," she said. "I'll bring you flowers. Lots of them. And I'll plant some, so you'll have flowers all the time. And you can look down and see this place, and know that you are always remembered." A shuddering sigh. "Thank you, Sarema. For listening. I think maybe we _would_ have been friends."

\--

Penelo walked a slow path back towards Balthier, and he rose to his feet as she approached. Her hair was wild, wind-whipped, and her eyes were rimmed with red as if she'd been crying. Nearly a half hour had passed that she had knelt before Sarema's headstone, speaking quietly.

He had watched her go through so many emotions as she had sat there, but as she walked toward him, he got a sense only of peace, as if at least a few of her burdens had been lifted from her shoulders, carried with her words away to a higher plane. She moved with such easy grace, her glow no longer stifled by quite so many looming shadows of the past.

"What did you talk about?" he asked.

And she smiled, a warm smile full of secrets. "That's between Sarema and me." But she still glowed brighter, and he thought maybe a tiny part of her had healed in the past few minutes. She turned a bit, looking out over Sarema's island.

"I wish I could have done something like this for my family," she said wistfully.

"We can, if you like," he said carefully. "Sarema's been alone here for so long. I think she might be glad of the company."

A moment's silence stretched between them, taut and trembling. He sensed a sudden fragility in her and reached for her hand, stroking his fingers across her knuckles. Lending his strength if she had need of it.

"I let them go," she whispered finally, and a few crystalline tears collected on her lashes. "My family. I let them go. Sarema is going to watch over them for me. In my place. She needs a family, and they need a daughter, a sister. So I'm giving them to her. They'll look after each other."

And his heart ached for her, and he marveled at her compassion, her generosity. He gently pulled her into the circle of his arms, burying his face in the lavender-scented softness of her hair.

"My darling girl," he breathed into it. "They will. I'm sure they will."

And he held her as she cried.


	22. Chapter 22

Whatever else had occurred at Sarema's grave Balthier was doomed to wonder, for Penelo would not share it with him. But something had changed in her, surely, for she had...settled somewhat, he thought. Oh, not that he thought that she had grown completely comfortable, complacent - did she ever grow truly complacent, he would know she had no feeling for him whatsoever. But she had lost a bit of that nervous, hunted look that she had so frequently worn.

Before, she had generally treated him as a necessary evil she must suffer in pursuit of her grand adventures, maintaining a certain skittish hesitance around him as if she was constantly on guard from an expected attack . Now - although she did not, precisely, seek him out - she at least accepted his presence with an ease she had previously lacked. She did not flinch or start when he entered a room, she would relax into her chair with no trace of a rigid spine, no longer looking as if she might at any moment be forced to flee. Her brows did not jerk upwards in surprise when he touched her. Even when he had kissed her into sweet submission previously, there had always been a strange, desperate eagerness in her. She threw herself headlong into it so she would have no time to second-guess herself, so she could enjoy what he offered with no self-recriminations later. He suspected that absolving herself of responsibility was the only way she could maintain her aloof facade and not have to examine herself, to confront her fears.

But that same night they had left Sarema's island, before she had gone off to bed, he had met her in the corridor on the way to his room to retire for the night. She had been leaning against the wall, lying in wait for him. Her hair had been loose, haloed by the light that had poured from her room, brushed and tamed into soft, silky waves. She wore only his shirt for nightclothes, having thoroughly commandeered the garment for her use. Rubbing one foot against the back of her opposite leg, she had worried her lower lip with those even, white teeth, considering him as if attempting to peer into his soul and glean his motives .

And he had waited, breathless, until she had pushed away from the wall and eased towards him, slowly, so slowly he thought that entire civilizations would crumble to distant memories before she ever reached him. He had been utterly arrested by her, by her careful, deliberate motions. He could only wait in a thick, heavy silence as she delicately laid her hands upon his chest, lifted herself on her toes, and touched her soft lips to his.

Testing the waters. Finding a steady place to land. He could give her that, but not if he grabbed for her like a barbarian, taking what she would so sweetly have given. So he held himself in tense stillness, and sweated, and longed, and wanted, and clenched his hands into fists so tight he thought he might've drawn blood, and let her learn him. She was seeking something, from herself as well as from him, and he could only desperately hope that she would find what she was looking for.

And she sighed, and he was undone. He had taken it as tacit permission, invitation. For the first time in so, so long, he allowed himself to embrace her, to slide his arms around her waist, to gently ease her closer. Not in a greedy, seizing grab, but rather comforting, encouraging. She had softened, all the cautious hesitance extinguished, relaxing into his hold. Rather than locking her arms to maintain her distance, she had folded in on herself, a tiny bird tucking its wings, allowing him to cradle her against his chest. The first overture that she had made, and he relished it, savored it. For just a moment he allowed himself to wonder what it might be like to have this for all time, to have her come to him of her own volition, to not be reduced to coaxing scraps of affection from her but to have them freely given.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, but was likely only seconds, she drew away, and murmured, "Hmm." As if that elusive thing she had been seeking had been uncovered at last, and she was pondering its significance. And she bid him good night, and left him standing in the corridor, staring at her closed door, knowing it was unlocked, and fighting the desire to follow.

Oh, she had brought him low. He had been bound by the sweet lilt of her voice, the silky threads of her hair, the downy softness of her skin. But those chains did not extend in both directions, and he was painfully aware of that disheartening fact. And rather than straining to free himself from her shackles, he found himself searching for ways to bind her to him as well. But he suspected he had little that she wanted, and it was a disconcerting thought, feeling that he had been measured and found wanting. He had been so unused to currying favor that he had no idea how he might insinuate himself into her good graces.

There was the sense of time slipping away from him like sand in an hourglass, each grain that tumbled through a wedge between them. These halcyon days could not last forever; these were merely moments out of time, borrowed against the rest of their lives - and he could only hope that when that time had elapsed, it would find them together still.

\--

A few days later, those tranquil days abruptly came to an end, and the temporary truce vanished as if had never been. The hourglass had run out, and reality marched on once again as they found themselves in a perilous stalemate, a furious clash of wills which he suspected they would both lose.

"I want to go to Nabudis," she said.

"No."

It had been an instinctive refusal, but they had both been surprised by it. Her brows arched, her eyes widened, her lips pursed into a flat line, her shoulders set in stubborn challenge. And he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, settling back in his chair in preparation for battle - of course, she _would_ take his abrupt denial poorly.

"Darling, Nabudis is dangerous."

" _Lots_ of places are dangerous," she countered in a waspish tone. "The Golmore Jungle, the Feywood. We've been to those."

"It's hardly the same. Those places are well-known to me. Not like Nabudis. It is a wasteland, a city teeming with the dead -"

"I know. I still want to go," she said belligerently, folding her arms over her chest.

"It's not safe." Something in his voice wavered a bit, as if pleading for her acceptance, her understanding. For her to see that he refused not out of high-handed superiority, not to control or stifle, but out of fear for her.

"I was safe in Rabanastre. I hated it. I don't want _safe_ ," she muttered. Her voice wrenched his heart, because it carried with it a feeling of doors closing, opportunities being snatched away. She was withdrawing, and he wanted to grab for her, pull her back. Keep her with him.

" _I_ want safe," he replied in carefully modulated tone.

"I'm not asking for _permission_ , Balthier." She made to move away, but he grabbed for her wrist, clamping it in the tight grip of his fingers.

"For the time being, you'll require it. We will _not_ be going to Nabudis." He tried to imbue the words with gentle, if firm, insistence, but she was determined to chafe under the restriction. There was a soft snort of derision, and he was treated again to the icy disdain of the lady she had become under Ashe's tutelage.

"Release me," she hissed. She didn't bother to attempt to free herself, merely stared him down as if struggling futilely in his hold was an action beneath her. As if _he_ were beneath her. He was halfway tempted to applaud, so convincing was her flawless mask of scorn.

That cool detachment, settling about her shoulders like a mantle. He'd have to snatch it away before it could cling and linger. Raking his free hand through his hair, he sighed, "Just listen for a moment."

But the moment he released her wrist, she pushed back from the table, and stalked furiously away. _Mistake_. His own ire had been steadily climbing, and she'd just tipped him past the point of no return by retreating. She ought to have known better - fleeing only made him want to chase her.

He caught up with her in the corridor, grabbing her shoulder and dragging her back a few paces to keep her from barricading herself in her room and sulking for the foreseeable future.

"We're not finished," he growled.

"We _are_." She was fairly vibrating with fury, and it gathered in her eyes, sparkling, incandescent. "I'm getting off at the next settlement."

"The hell you say." Glowering down at her, he pinned her shoulders to the wall, barely resisting the maddening urge to shake some sense into her. "Will you just _listen_ for once in your life, you miserable little hellion?"

Perhaps not the _best_ choice of words, for she gasped, flushed an angry shade of red, bristling at him, jerking to escape his hold on her shoulders. Not to be thwarted, he leaned in, observing with perverse satisfaction as she tried and failed to dislodge him. Her color was high, her chest heaved from exertion, and he...he wanted to provoke her just a bit further, see what it wrought.

Because she was beautiful. Because even in her rage - or maybe _especially_ in her rage - she tempted him. To slide his hands in his hair, to bring her lips to his and kiss all of that righteous indignation right out of her. Instead, he pressed closer, insinuating his knee between her legs, forcing her onto her toes to accommodate him. And she stilled, grabbing at his arms to avoid pitching forward against his chest as the movement unbalanced her.

Their eyes caught and locked, his gaze so smug and self-satisfied that she itched to slap him. Instead she whispered furiously, " _Damn you, Balthier_." And she fisted one hand in his hair, dragging his head down even as she turned her face up to press her lips to his.

All at once she was no longer fighting for escape - rather she was fighting to get closer. He shifted, readjusted, released her shoulders, slid his palms under her, supporting her, lifting her. Arms locked around his neck, she moved restlessly against him, seeking the perfect combination of movement and pressure. She writhed, caught in a sinuous arch, whimpered against his hot throat.

He understood. Poor little kitten, she had been spoiling for a fight, for anything to ease the sharp, unrelenting ache of unfulfilled desire, frustration. She had suffered as much as he had, these past weeks. And now she clung to him desperately, as if she were terrified he would once again draw away, as he had before. One of her hands was feverishly attempting to work his belt buckle, and he gently brushed her fingers away.

"No, no, no, no..." The words tumbled out of her, building to a plaintive whine that he stifled with his fingers on her lips, a tender kiss to her forehead. He sought out the sensitive skin behind her ear, awash in the scent of lavender, kissing the delicate flesh there, hearing her breath catch in her throat.

He shouldered away from the wall, and she clamped her legs around his waist, a little sob bursting out of her. Her head dropped onto his shoulder, nuzzling against him in silent plea.

With one hand he reached out, feeling for the doorknob, eventually closing his fingers upon it, and gave it a vicious twist. Her teeth scraped across throat; he very nearly stumbled as his knees threatened to buckle from underneath him. Wicked little thing that she was, she only continued on her path, stringing kisses up his neck, nipping at his earlobe.

He toppled her down on the bed. The thin strap holding up her top had slipped off one shoulder, her hair tumbled down her back in wild disarray. She looked adorably rumpled, slightly pouting at having been thrust away from him so suddenly. Flushed cheeks, chin tilting upwards as if in preparation for an argument.

She opened her mouth.

"Not a word, Penelo." Her mouth shut with an audible snap as he shucked off his vest and shirt and crawled across the mattress towards her. He slid his fingers into her hair, kissed the corner of her lips. "Not a word."

\--

"Are you still planning on getting off at the next settlement?" He pressed the question into the warm skin at the base of her spine, enjoyed the little shudder that slid through her as his stubbled jaw gently abraded her sensitive flesh.

"Will you take me to Nabudis?" The sullen tone was muffled; her face was buried in the pillows.

He smiled, kissed the spot again, said, "No."

"Balthier -" She tried to rise up onto her elbows; he pressed his palm against her spine, held her down where he wanted her.

"Hush and listen," he said. "It's dangerous enough to go with a complete party, much less just the two of us. I would never have even considered going with Fran, and she's got lifetimes of experience on both of us. It's not a _never_ , darling girl, it's a _not now_. I'll not take you anywhere I cannot guarantee your safety."

She lapsed into silence, considering his words. Then, finally, "You could have said so earlier."

"I would have, had you given me half an opportunity. But no, you were bound and determined be in a snit."

An offended breath. "I was not in a snit!"

"Sweet, you're working yourself into a snit _now_ ," he chuckled.

The fierce glare she shot at him was softened by her tousled hair, kiss-bruised lips. And he collected her in his arms, arranging her against him so that her head was pillowed on his chest.

"I propose a compromise. Let's go somewhere neither of us has ever been before," he said.

Long, warm fingers traveled up and down her back in soothing strokes, coaxing her to agree, to stay awhile longer, to take what he offered.

"Won't it be dangerous, if you've never been there?" she asked.

"Not in a city," he said reasonably. "Give it a chance. Not all adventures must be dangerous. You wanted to see the world. What have you got to lose?"

And she sighed, curled closer, and silently granted him another few days' time.

\--

The capitol city of Rozarria was an interesting hodgepodge of varying architectural styles. Towering spires vied with looming columns and high-reaching brick walls spider-webbed with climbing ivy for dominance, but none won out, merely serving to bring an eclectic, dizzying sense of disorientation to the beholder. It appeared to Penelo as if several kingdoms had butted right up against one another, each bringing their own distinct flair to the city. Certainly she had never seen a bright blue and purple glass-topped tower tucked right up against a rustic-looking lodge, which was, in turn, crowded right next to a stately, marble-columned manor house.

There seemed to be no particular commerce district, with open-air markets set up wherever space was available. And no residential district, either - it was impossible to tell at a glance whether you might be entering a courthouse or someone's private residence. If there were signs to indicate buildings for a particular purpose, she had seen hide nor hair of them.

Despite all that, the city was entirely too lively, and everyone seemed to know precisely where they were headed. The Rozarrians were loud, boisterous, and overall friendly group of people, and the city was raucous with the constant shouts of greeting as friends passed one another on the street.

Though she knew that Rozarria had both a monarchy and a healthy amount of nobility, it was impossible to tell by either their clothing or their manners who was who - street vendors seemed to dress just as flamboyantly as the upper classes. She would never have known the man purchasing a sack full of plums for a duke if the vendor hadn't greeted him as one - in fact, she thought perhaps of the two, the vendor was the better dressed.

Despite the disorder, she loved the city, the lilting, musical accents of the people. She stole a glance beside her; Balthier did not seem to be similarly impressed. In fact, he looked vaguely nauseated. The chaotic nature of the city and its people served only to make him ill at ease.

"It's amazing," she said, relishing his discomfort as he was jostled by a passing group of children who turned around briefly to shout an apology. "What do you think?"

"It's...ah, interesting."

She coughed discreetly into her fist, hiding her smile. And then started, as off to her right she saw a cluster of what looked to be Dalmascan soldiers. A curious sense of foreboding shuddered through her; she sidled closer to Balthier, slipping her hand into his. A brief flicker of surprise chased across his face, but his fingers closed around hers, warm, solid, reassuring.

Her attention was swiftly captured by a vendor selling his wares, strange fruits that she had never seen before, fuzzy ones, star-shaped ones, vibrant pink ones that she was certain didn't grow anywhere in Dalmasca.

"Ah, miss, you look like you've never seen a heartfruit before," said the merchant, smiling down at her. He hefted the fruit in his hand, passing it over to her to examine.

"I haven't," she murmured. "Heartfruit? Why is it called that?"

"It's in the seeds, miss. You cut the fruit in half, and the pattern of the seeds on the inside resembles a heart." He winked at her. "Legend has it that if you scoop out the seeds and put six of them beneath your pillow, you'll dream of your true love. Just a story, of course, a bit of fun. But you'd be hard-pressed, I think, to find a Rozarrian lady who's not done it herself once or twice."

"Why twice?" Balthier scoffed. "To get a second opinion?"

"Ah, sir, you've no romance in your soul," the merchant chided with a good-natured laugh.

And Penelo, feeling rather silly, set the fruit down, thanked the merchant for the story, and drifted on. But when she glanced behind her, it was to see Balthier passing over a bit of gil and collecting a bag of heartfruits.

And later on in the day, they stopped to perch upon a low wall separating two streets, and split a heartfruit between them. It was sweet and soft, and while Balthier was distracted in his search for a handkerchief to wipe the sticky juice from his hands, Penelo slipped a small handful of seeds into her pocket.

\--

She had thought that when night fell, the city would quiet somewhat, but it seemed just the opposite - the streets flooded with even more people. A lamplighter had made his rounds, setting aglow the plentiful lamps lining the streets. And she sat and watched the pandemonium, the bag of exotic fruits by her side, as Balthier browsed the wares laid out in the rows of merchant's tables lining the walkway. He had indicated that she should wait and rest a bit, but she suspected that he was looking for another trinket or some such bit of nonsense that he thought she might like, and did not want her to ruin the surprise.

She tried to divide her attention evenly between Balthier and the swarms of people crowding the street, but was momentarily distracted by a swarm of ladies in their long, fluttering gowns in every vibrant hue imaginable drifting through the streets like large, magnificent butterflies. Her view was suddenly obstructed by two men who paused before her, and she listed to the right to see around them.

"My lady, here you are at last!"

She heard the words with a jolt of shock, stiffening as she realized they were directed to her. Her attention firmly captured, she stared at the two men before her. Soldiers - Dalmascan soldiers. She'd been correct in her earlier assumption, but - what were they doing _here_ , of all places?

She cleared her throat. "Can I help you?" she asked cautiously.

"Her Majesty the Queen is visiting Rozarria with Emperor Larsa Solidor to foster diplomatic relations," the one on the left explained. "She received word earlier that the Strahl had been docked in the Aerodrome. There's been a notice out on it since a week after you went missing and failed to send word, my lady, that any city who harbors her should contact the queen at once. We've been searching for you most of the day; we're to conduct you back to her majesty directly."

Penelo shot to her feet at once. " _Bal_ -" But the soldier on the right clamped his leather-gloved hand over her mouth, stifling the cry.

"Now, now, we have our orders, beg pardon, my lady." He grunted as Penelo's foot connected with his shin. She bit down on his hand, but her teeth gripped only leather - the glove was too thick for her teeth to connect with his skin. Furious, she flailed, kicked, but there were two of them, heavily armored. Without benefit of a weapon, which had been left off for the trip into the city, she was supremely outmatched. And they were trained warriors, more than equipped to subdue one lone female. She found herself lifted off her feet. All her desperate thrashing had accomplished was to knock the bag of fruit from the wall, scattering its contents into the dusty street, where they were promptly sent flying by the well-shod feet of the people milling around.

No one cared to rescue her, not when she had been taken into custody by soldiers of a foreign nation. And so she could only watch as, little by little, Balthier disappeared into the distance, his head bent low over an object on a table, and she was carted away from him.

\--

She had gone, fled. Balthier cast his eyes upon the place he had left her waiting, a curious numbness settling in his veins. He clenched his fingers around his purchase - a tiny figurine of a bird carved from crystal, perched upon a twig made of twisting gold and silver wires - and tried to understand.

She had seemed happy. She had been thrilled with this city, agape with breathless excitement. Earlier in the day she had even slipped her small hand into his so that they would not be separated by the tide of people pushing past them. They had spent several hours exploring, and he did not think he had seen her sweet face lacking a smile at any point. How could she have left him? He had thought that she had gotten over her anger at having been denied Nabudis, but had she merely concealed it from him? Had she simply bided her time, waiting to lose herself in a city that was unfamiliar to him so that he would not easily be able to locate her?

Something drifted over the toe of his boot; he looked down. A bag, like the one from the fruit merchant. No, not merely _like_ it - it was the bag from the fruit merchant. Near his right foot, a pulpy mass of squished fruit lay on the ground, having been pounded to a sticky mess by the throng of people passing through.

A frisson of mingled fear and fury assailed him, chasing away the numbness that had invaded him at the thought of her desertion.

She had not _left_. She had been _taken_.

He was furious and terrified. Had he thought a city would keep her safe? How wrong he had been - and now she was to suffer for it.

"Well, it seems that I acted in haste in giving you a posthumous pardon," came a slightly sardonic voice from behind him.

He jerked around, coming face to face with Larsa Solidor. Basch was at his side, his hand on the hilt of his sword, sensing the volatile emotions that roiled in Balthier and preparing himself for battle if it came down to it. Larsa had grown several inches since Balthier had last seen him up close, his hair pulled back into a neat queue, no longer in the puff-sleeved blouses he had previously favored, but a slightly more severe, reserved style as befitting an emperor in his own right.

Still a boy, but with enough of the man he would one day become in him for Balthier to grow immediately suspicious.

"If you took her," he seethed, "I will kill you."

Larsa's dark brows rose skyward in surprise. "Not many are those who would threaten an emperor," he said. "But I will forgive you the lapse, all things considered." He clasped his hands behind his back, reading the barely-leashed fury in Balthier's face. " _I_ didn't take her," he said finally. "Her Majesty Queen Ashelia did."

"Then you will take me to where she is being held." Balthier's tone did not allow for dissention.

"I'm afraid that will not be possible. Her Majesty is even now on her way out of the city. Penelo was taken to her ship. You'll not make it in time. As it happens, I don't agree that her majesty has the right of it, even if she does have good intentions. I only came to tell you what has passed because I - all of Archadia, really - owed you a debt. I hope this shall put us even."

Balthier gave a sharp nod. He had not desired favors from those he had once traveled with, but this was one he would not thumb his nose at. But for Larsa's warning, he might have wasted precious time searching fruitlessly.

"I'll be on my way, then. I've a state dinner of some sort to attend. _Do_ try not to make a muck of things this time around, Balthier." And he was off, Basch at his side, leaving Balthier to ponder his next course of action.

\--

Ashe had not cared to listen. But then, Penelo hadn't really expected her to, not in the face of so many livid, nigh-insensible recriminations of Balthier. It seemed that somehow she and Balthier had been spotted in Balfonheim, and that an unnamed source had reported back to Ashe that Balthier had carried Penelo away from the city kicking and screaming. Of course it was true, but none of her attempts at an explanation had gotten through to Ashe, who was inclined to believe the worst. Given the nature of the report, she had promptly launched a rescue mission - really, nothing more than a glorified kidnapping.

She firmly believed that Balthier had merely worn away Penelo's resistance, and that Penelo required time separated from him to recover her senses and shake his hold on her. Nothing she said had penetrated Ashe's infuriated furor. No amount of pleading had been able to convince Ashe that she had elected to stay aboard the Strahl with Balthier of her own free will.

And now she was languishing in a locked cabin aboard Ashe's airship, bound for Rabanastre.

Her surroundings were sumptuous, but she could not enjoy them. She simply curled up on the bed, watching the minute hand of the clock resting upon the nightstand tick away the time with doleful precision. With nothing left to do but sleep, she disrobed and changed into the soft cotton nightgown that Ashe had had left in the room for her.

As she folded her clothing neatly to set it upon a chair, a handful of seeds scattered across the floor. The heartfruit seeds she had stashed in her pocket earlier in the day. With shaking hands she collected an even half-dozen and thrust them beneath the pillow.

Climbing into bed, she curled up and rested her head upon the pillow. This time, Balthier would not be just across the hall, and the thought made her...lonely, sad. She closed her eyes, slept. And dreamed of Balthier.


	23. Chapter 23

Gowns again. And an armed escort, wherever she went. Stationed outside her room as she slept, beneath her balcony lest she attempt to make an escape down the trellis of climbing roses, following her only a few paces behind, until the steady _clink-clink-clink_ of their armor threatened to drive her completely mad.

On the first day back in Rabanastre, she had sulked within the confines of her room, too infuriated to risk emerging from it for fear that she might actually plant her fist right in Ashe's face, and that would do no one any good at all.

On the second day, she had flung open the door only to be met by the two guards who were to become her constant companions for the foreseeable future. She had squared her shoulders, stalking past them determinedly, more than a little irritated at having been assigned a set of keepers to watch her room. And when she had heard the heavy clomp of boots behind her, and realized that they had followed, she had whirled on them furiously.

"I am going to the library," she had said.

"Of course, my lady," one of them had responded.

" _Alone_."

The two guards exchanged glances, shrugs. "Queen's orders, my lady. We're to accompany you at all times."

She threw up her hands in consternation. "Oh, of _course_! This farcical melodrama only needed a pair of jailors to make it complete."

Hesitant, confused looks. "We're your escorts, my lady. We'll take you anywhere you wish. You have only to ask."

"The Aerodrome, then. Well? At once, if you don't mind," she'd snapped. Oh, she knew it was not of their doing that they had had the misfortune to be stuck with her, but they were convenient - easy targets.

A remorseful look from one guard as a flush swept over his face, hidden only slightly by his sturdy helmet. Perhaps he had tried to dress it up in fine clothes, but they _had_ been instructed to escort Penelo anywhere she wished to go - within the confines of the palace.

Penelo planted her fists on her hips. "You _can't_ , can you? And I suppose you're to stop me from leaving, as well. Do what you will, but _don't_ insult me with the pretense of being anything other than what you are." And she swept away towards the library, the two guards at her heels.

The morning of the third day dawned rainy and grey, summer swiftly fading to autumn and bringing a chill to the air. The clean scent of the rain permeated the air, and Penelo drowsed abed for far longer than she should have, listening to the soothing patter of the rain upon the windows.

Finally, when she had at last begun to consider rising, there was a knock at the door.

"Beg pardon, my lady," a hesitant voice called through the door. "But Her Majesty requests your company for tea." One of the guards. She wasn't sure which; she hadn't bothered to speak to either of them long enough to learn their names or voices.

She heaved an annoyed sigh, and shouted back, "Requests, or _demands_?"

Silence. Of course. A request was the same as a demand from a queen; who would dare refuse? Well, she would - but she suspected her guards would drag her out kicking and screaming if they had to. She wouldn't give any of them the satisfaction.

\--

"You're, ah, looking well," Ashe said, watching as Penelo daintily stirred a single lump of sugar into her tea.

In truth, she did not look well - she looked not at all pleased at having been subjected to Ashe's company, her lips pursed into an expression of distaste, like she'd bitten into something bitter. She did look every inch the proper lady...but the look was somehow too severe for her. She seemed composed of thin edges and sharp angles, warning away any who might come near lest she take a slice out of them.

"Yes, well, your hospitality is beyond compare," Penelo replied with saccharine sweetness. "I must thank you for my... _companions_." She waved vaguely at the two guards standing near the door. "I'm calling them Francine and Bettina."

Ashe choked on her tea, set the cup down carefully. One of the guards made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a spurt of laughter camouflaged as a cough.

Penelo shot a poisonous look over her shoulder at them. "Please, _do_ continue. I've got some lovely new dresses in my closet. Perhaps you'd like to try them on?"

The guard's mirth died abruptly, replaced with an expression abject of horror.

Ashe cleared her throat, wide-eyed gaze drifting between Penelo's fractious face and those of the duly chastened guards. "Surely, they're not _actually_ called...?"

"He's Ferrin, ma'am, and I'm called Bain," one of them offered. "I guess that would make me Bettina."

"Sod off, you're not sticking _me_ with Francine!" the one called Ferrin growled. Then he noticed Ashe's raised eyebrows and realized his mistake, shifting uncomfortably. "Beg pardon, your majesty, for the language. Won't happen again."

"See that it does not," Ashe replied crisply.

" _They're_ the guards you chose to inflict upon me? Really, Ashe," Penelo said in a low, chiding tone.

"They're not a punishment, Penelo. For the time being, I need you here, and yes, perhaps I was a bit overzealous in my methods, but, I beg you, please understand -"

"No!" Penelo shot to her feet, nearly upsetting the silver tea service resting upon the table. "I am so tired of other people attempting to order my life for me! What gives you the right to - to just pluck me up from wherever I happen to be and cart me back here like so much baggage?"

"Penelo, dear -"

" _No_!" A snarl of frustration erupted from her throat. "I'm _done_. I came to tea, and now I'm leaving. I have fulfilled my obligation to the crown."

And she swept from the room, stumbling briefly as she trod on the hem of her gown. One of the guards reached out to steady her, but she warded off his hands, muttering a few blistering curses as she stomped off. Predictably, they followed a few paces behind her.

\--

Ashe had not attempted to call her to tea again, to Penelo's relief. She was amazed she had lasted as long as she had before snapping Ashe's head off. She could almost feel guilty, remembering the hurt that had briefly passed over Ashe's face there at the end. But then, Ashe had certainly deserved to be called out on her high-handed behavior.

She sighed, moving along the walls of the massive library, absently tracing the spines of the leather-bound books on the shelves. _A History of Archades_. Boring. _On the Construction of Airships from 517-536_. Passable, but she was hardly in the mood for verbose descriptions of the functions of glossair rings. _Archadian Myths and Legends_. She paused.

After gently sliding the book out of its place on the shelf, she flipped it open to the table of contents, skimming it for the words she hoped so desperately to see. And there it was, on page 189... _The Pirate Balthier_. Her heart stuttered through a few beats, her fingers curled around the small leather-bound volume. She darted a glance towards the door of the library, near which her two guards were stationed, ostensibly to keep her from making a break for freedom. Far enough away, at least, to provide her the illusion of privacy.

She settled into a large wingback chair, drawing up her legs beneath her skirts into the most unladylike position she could manage. Somehow, those tiny rebellions seemed to be the only thing keeping her clinging to her life as the way she wanted it, rather than her life as orchestrated by everyone else. She opened the book, which lay flat and comfortable in her hands, flipped to the correct page, and began to read.

_Once, in an age long past, a great lady found herself in a delicate position. She was due to have a child, but she was as yet unmarried, and her lover was wholly unsuitable. And so she took herself away to the country for the birth, as ladies in such precarious positions are wont to do, and by and by the child was born, as children are wont to do. He was hardly in her arms an hour before he was snatched away, to be shunted off to the nearest orphanage, there to live or die as the harsh world saw fit, for he had no place in his mother's world, neither in his father's._

_He received only one gift from the mother he would never meet again: the name Balthier._

The sound of a throat being cleared jerked her from the story. She glanced up, annoyed. Ferrin or Bain, she couldn't rightly be sure which, stood at her right side.

"You've got a visitor, my lady," he said.

Her heart began to beat erratically, hope climbing swiftly, unfurling its wings inside of her, breathlessly wondering if the mere reading of his name had conjured him forth as if from a spell.

"Emperor Larsa Solidor," he continued. "Shall I send for tea?"

Hope died a swift death, crushed beneath the weight of the softly spoken words. She took a long breath and closed the book, resting it on her lap.

"Please, do," she said, hoping she didn't sound as crestfallen as she felt. "And in the meantime, you may show him in."

A few moments later, Larsa was ushered into the room, to take a seat in the chair opposite her own. They murmured greetings, and Larsa waited to speak until the guards had retaken their positions near the door, out of earshot.

"Well," he said, with a wry smile. "I surmise that I am not precisely whom you had hoped to see."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said. "It's always nice to see you, Larsa. What brings you?"

"You, actually. Or rather, Queen Ashe. She has requested that I speak to you on her behalf."

Penelo's expression shuttered, distant and cold. " _That_ is not a subject I wish to revisit."

A tea service on a cart was wheeled in, placed neatly between their two chairs by a serving girl who promptly left them in peace. With ease born of countless hours of practice, Penelo poured tea for the two of them.

"You know," Larsa remarked thoughtfully, "I recall a time when you despaired of ever doing that properly. But you've rather mastered the art of it, I think."

Despite herself, Penelo's lips quirked into the ghost of a smile. "Oh, I don't know. I still singe my fingers from time to time. Slosh tea over the rim. Forget the milk."

"I'd wager you haven't made even the tiniest error in months. Why, I'd wager that even Ashe couldn't do it better. It's the privilege of queens, you know, not to have to pour for themselves. She's probably forgotten how to do it properly." Larsa bit into a crisp tea cake, crumbs scattering and clinging to the front of his shirt. He brushed at them, frowning. Penelo, he noticed, had had no such issue.

"I really don't wish to speak of Ashe, Larsa," Penelo said in a hard, fierce tone. "I'm furious with her."

"Yes, of course. Understandably so, I might add. Unfortunately, I owe her a debt, and she has called it due. Therefore, I will make you a deal: I will tell you what I know of Balthier, and in return you will listen to what else I have to say." That same wry smile; an expression too old for one still so young.

"You have information about Balthier?" Her hand went to her chest as if to keep her heart from pounding right out of it.

"Do we have a deal?" he countered.

She sighed. "When did you become so ruthless? Yes, we have a deal."

A smile; he rubbed his hands together like he'd won - rather too conniving a gesture for an emperor to be making. "I saw Balthier in Rozarria the night you were taken."

"You did?" She gaped at him. "You didn't...you didn't have anything to do with that, did you?" She narrowed her eyes, searching his face for the tiniest bit of untruth.

"Of course not." He waved away her question with an offended expression. "But I _was_ present when Ashe was told that you were in the city, when she gave the order for you to be located and, ah, recovered. Naturally, there was nothing I could do about that - I cannot countermand an order given by a monarch to her own soldiers. But I did manage to track down Balthier."

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "I suppose he wasn't in the best of spirits?"

Larsa coughed delicately into his hand. "Perhaps a bit of an understatement. He was murderous. I thought Basch would skewer him straight through on the spot, after he made a most uncalled-for threat against me. Nevertheless, I assured him that it was Ashe, not I, who was responsible for your disappearance."

"He knew, then? But he didn't..." Her eyes dropped, fingers knitting in her lap. "I suppose I thought he would rescue me." Had his anger been merely the pique of a boy who had had his favorite toy snatched away?

"Penelo." Larsa reached across the tea cart, placed his hand over hers. "There wasn't time, before you'd been taken from the city. He couldn't have reached you."

Her shoulders lifted in a brief shrug. "I've been here for days. He's known where to find me, but he hasn't come." It stung a bit, that he had not, that she had been abandoned once again.

"Give it time. He must know how difficult it will be to infiltrate such a heavily-guarded palace. He would be a fool to charge in without having accounted for every possibility. And he is no fool." He held out his teacup for her to fill, which she did mechanically. "Penelo, if you had only seen his face, you would have no doubts. He _will_ come. I think the question ought rather to be - will you go?"

Her eyes jerked up, wide, surprised. "I...I don't know. Should I not, do you think?"

"I think we've touched upon my second subject," he said. "Before you come to a decision, you ought to be equipped to make it properly. In the weeks you've been gone, Ashe was terrified for you. We all were, really. You sent no word, and none of us knew what to think. And there were some...disturbing reports." He watched a delicate flush climb into her cheeks. "So, please understand that Ashe had her reasons, misguided though they may have been. But there's more beyond that - she is struggling under the weight of a kingdom's needs. She requires your assistance."

" _My_ assistance? What could I possibly do?" Baffled, she shook her head.

"The roles of the nobility are typically to defray certain responsibilities that fall upon the crown. In that regard, I have been fortunate - Archadia is just rotten with nobility, you know. As such, most of those concerns are dealt with by them, and I need not concern myself with them unless there is a grievance brought specifically to me. But Ashe has the whole of the responsibility - the nobility that existed beneath her father's reign have scattered, vanished. When it became clear that Dalmasca would fall, they fled like rats from a sinking ship. Their lands reverted to the crown, and now that she must care for them herself, she is buckling beneath the strain. It is far too much for any one person to manage. That was her purpose in bestowing a good deal of them upon you and Vaan, I think - to place them in the care of someone she could trust, and to give the both of you the stability in life you previously lacked. You are _needed_ here, Penelo. Dalmasca has need of you."

She felt like her breath was leaving her too quickly, like she couldn't draw enough in to compensate for that which she'd lost. "I can't...I can't do that. I don't know _how_ to do that." Much as Ashe had tried to make her into one, she _wasn't_ a lady - she would always be the street child, the thief, the beggar. Panic rose in her chest, strangling her. Fighting, stealing, hunting - those things she was equipped for. Helping to run a kingdom? Madness.

"What do you think she's been teaching you in the past year?" His eyebrows raised at her panicked expression. "Penelo, _breathe_." He patted her hand reassuringly, soothingly.

"It's...it's just been tea and dancing and the correct way to walk down stairs...that sort of nonsense. Hitting someone with a fan if they make an untoward advance. The right sort of curtsy. Art and music, some history and mathematics. Penmanship. Embroidery."

"Perhaps a bit of estate management thrown in there somewhere?" he suggested. "Overseeing accounts, hiring servants, visiting tenants, addressing concerns?"

"Yes, but -"

"She's been training you. You ought to be perfectly able to handle such a task, and I'm sure you'll do a fine job of it. But you don't have to make that decision right now. For now, just...talk with her. You can still be angry with her, but I hope you will hear her out."

She gave a shuddering sigh, slumping back in her chair inelegantly, pressing her fingers to her forehead as if a headache had settled there. She swallowed down the fear, summoned an unaffected mien. Probably too late to convince Larsa that she was anything other than absolutely terrified, but she refused to disgrace herself further. "All right, Larsa, you've said your piece. I'd like to be alone for a while."

He suppressed a laugh, deciding she would not care for the reminder that one did not dismiss an emperor. Penelo would always be unconventional, it was what he had always liked about her. She did not stand on ceremony; she would always be honest with him. Ashe, too, he was certain, valued that particular quality - she need never fear betrayal at Penelo's hands, for that sort of behavior was entirely contrary to Penelo's nature. "I am sure we will meet again soon," he said as he stood.

"Larsa?"

He stopped and turned, just before reaching the door. "Yes?"

And Penelo sighed, her voice resigned and weary. "If you would be so kind, please tell Ashe that I will meet her tomorrow for tea."

\--

Alone in her room, Penelo slipped into bed and thumbed through the pages of the leather-bound volume in her hands until she came upon the correct page.

_Abandoned to an uncertain fate, and in the care of an orphan matron with too many charges to devote more than a few minutes to each, Balthier grew wild, as is the inclination of children with precious little supervision. He might have made friends with the other children, if there hadn't been traces of his half-noble ancestry lingering in his face and bearing. Instead, he was subjected to their taunts and jeers, for he was the one of them that was unwanted, and he was never permitted to forget it._

_The passing years turned him cold and hard; he learned he could quiet their taunts with an icy glare, a cutting word. He learned to strike before struck himself, to build a wall around his heart that could not be cut down with their slings and arrows. He held himself apart before anyone else could shove him away, for if he kept himself from caring, he could not be hurt._

_When he came of age, he left the orphanage at last, signing on as a sailor on merchant's ship. There, no one knew from where he had come, and his hard work was rewarded. There, he found himself judged by the content of his character rather than his origins._

_The merchant who owned the ship had a wife and a lovely young daughter by the name of Ceremina. She was sweet and kind to each sailor aboard her father's vessel, but to none so much as Balthier. And though he knew nothing could come of such a thing, each new smile she bestowed upon him melted the thick layer of ice encasing his heart a bit more, until finally he was forced to admit his love for her._

_But he had nothing, no worldly possessions, nor even a surname to give her. They both knew that her father would never agree to such a union. And so they plotted to find a way to be together; he would leave her father's ship for a better opportunity to seek his fortune and return to her in one year's time exactly, to make an offer for her that her father might accept. And he bid her to wait for him, for just a year, and she laid her head upon his chest and said, "Balthier, you are always, and ever shall be, in my heart."_

_So Balthier left to seek his fortune and found it quite by accident. Within a fortnight he found himself taken captive and spirited aboard a pirate's ship, pressed into service. And within two months, he had found himself rising through the ranks, the steely cut of his commanding voice - well-learned since his unfortunate childhood - marking him a force to be reckoned with, and the other pirates, even the ones who had served long before he had come aboard, trembled before him._

_Not six months later, the captain died in a terrible and glorious battle, and Balthier found himself the new commander of the crew. With less than four months remaining, he lead his crew through daring heists, raking in more profits than ever before, and with each raid, Balthier found himself a step closer to becoming Ceremina's husband. He knew he would give up the pirating in a short time, but his portion of the pirating spoils would buy him a vessel of his own and he would set himself up as a merchant as well, which would provide them the measure of respectability they would need._

_Finally, the longed-for day arrived, and he sailed his ship back to the port-town where Ceremina's family lived - only to be thwarted by rough seas and high winds. His return was delayed by a full day past their agreed-upon deadline. And when he was at last able to knock upon Ceremina's door to present himself to her father as a prospective suitor, it was to find the family in mourning._

_To his utter horror, he discovered that Ceremina had been betrothed against her wishes to a man her father esteemed. The wedding was to have taken place that very morning, but when her mother had gone to wake her to dress, she had found Ceremina dead by her own hand._

_She had left no explanation but a cryptic note on her pillow: "You are always, and ever shall be, in my heart."_

_A day too late, and now Ceremina was lost to him forever._

_Wracked with guilt and steeped in despair, Balthier could not stand the thought of a life lived without his beloved Ceremina. He ended his own life mere hours later, at the point of his pistol._

_Unable to be together in life, they now adorn the western sky, with The Pirate Balthier being the centermost star in the constellation known as Ceremina's Heart. Where he was always, and ever shall be._

Penelo shut the book with a snap. "What trite nonsense," she muttered. But she blinked back a mist of tears. A deep melancholy enshrouded her heart, because in it she felt the pulse of Ceremina's words and feared that they rang true for her as well.


	24. Chapter 24

Balthier lay in Penelo's bed aboard the Strahl, dangling a ring hanging from a thin silver chain above his face. His ring. It'd been an age since he'd last seen it - not since he'd given it to Penelo on that flight into Archadia, more than a year ago. But she had kept it, it seemed, not to wear on her finger, but to wear around her neck like a pendant. The chain was quite long; probably it hung well beneath the neckline of her clothes and out of sight. It both touched and humbled him that at some point she had worn his ring over her heart, not openly where anyone could see and ask untoward questions, but privately so that only she would know. As if in tribute - a memory, a pain so deep she shared it with no one.

He had found it only because the scent of her hair had been fading from her pillows, and he'd gone in search of the vial of lavender water he'd given her, shamelessly pawing through her meager belongings. He'd uncovered it after only a few minutes, tucked away in a plain, unadorned jewelry box that she had appropriated from among Fran's abandoned former possessions. Only beside the small vial had been a length of silver chain wrapped carefully around a brightly colored ring. He'd recognized it immediately, drawing it out of the box with a curious sense of wonder and hope. She had kept it. She _still_ kept it. She had secreted it away, protected it, kept it carefully hidden. She would see it every time she reached for the lavender water; she could hardly have forgotten about it. She had to care for him still, then, even just a little.

The Strahl felt so empty without her, as though an essential part had been ripped away, leaving only jagged edges that could never be knit back together. _He_ felt empty without her. She'd taken a piece of him with her, and he felt the loss as acutely as if a knife had slipped between his ribs, twisting and rending his flesh and bone to carve out a chunk of his soul. And she didn't even know it - she had utterly ruined him and she couldn't possibly know.

He had wanted to go after her immediately, but knew it would be fruitless - Penelo was under Ashe's protection, and he had riled the new Queen at their last meeting. She would not relinquish Penelo easily. If, indeed, Penelo wished to _be_ relinquished at all. He had not, perhaps, done a particularly grand job of calming her fears. This time, he could not simply steal her away, toss her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and take her wherever he wished without regard to her desires. This time, he owed it to her to ask.

Still, without a particularly cunning plan, he knew not whether he would even get a chance to ask; certainly Ashe was unlikely to permit him within a hundred yards of Penelo. And that meant he was going to have to call upon every resource at his disposal - and perhaps beg indulgence from some that weren't. Such an undertaking would take time; he could only hope that Penelo was well and in good spirits. He had abandoned her once, and he did not care to let her think he had willingly done so again.

He lowered the ring into his waiting palm, closing his fingers around it. Blast it; he was going to have to marry the girl - _if_ she would have him. Gods knew she would be getting the poorer end of the bargain. He had so little to recommend him; he could only hope that she would love him anyway, that she might find her way to forgiving him his unforgivable lapses in judgment, that she might see something in him worth salvaging. Because without her...he would be lost.

\--

Tea was a solemn affair. Penelo and Ashe had gone through two cups of the sweetly aromatic rose petal tea Ashe favored as well as an entire plate of sugared scones before either of them had worked up the nerve to speak so much as a word beyond the customary greetings. Despite the fact that Ashe had been the one that desired to meet with her, Penelo was surprised by how ill at ease Ashe seemed to be, stiff and tense, as if she might be expecting another attack.

More than a bit uncomfortable herself, Penelo finally broke the awkward silence. "I behaved poorly a few days ago. It was not well done of me. I _am_ sorry, Ashe."

At the unexpected apology, the tension drained out of Ashe on a heavy, relieved sigh. "No, please. You had every right to be angry with me." After a brief hesitation she reached out to catch Penelo's hand in hers, squeezing reassuringly. "Truly, I don't wish to order your life for you. In the past year, you have been rather...fragile, I would say. We've had no word from you for weeks; I think we were _all_ a little afraid for you."

Though the words held no censure, Penelo ducked her head guiltily. Ashe had taken such pains to see her well cared for, and she had, like a rebellious child, fled with no explanation besides a hastily scrawled note. Perhaps Ashe had not been _owed_ an explanation, precisely, but now, after the heat of anger and indignation had faded, she regretted causing so much concern in the woman who had done so much for her. She supposed an honest conversation was the very least owed to Ashe.

"Larsa and I spoke yesterday," Penelo said. "He explained some of your concerns. But, Ashe, I really don't see how I could possibly be of any help. You can dress me up like a lady, but it's all just camouflage. I feel like an imposter; I don't _belong_ here. I'm not made for this sort of life."

Ashe made a sympathetic sound in her throat. "Penelo, I know how daunting this must seem to you. But please believe me, you are absolutely equipped for the task. You have _always_ been a lady in the truest sense of the word. You've taught me more about what that responsibility entails than I've ever learned from books or tutors." She gave a brief, self-deprecating spurt of laughter. " _You_ taught _me_ nobility, dear. All I've taught you was etiquette."

"I...I'm sure I don't understand your meaning," Penelo said, entirely bewildered by the turn in the conversation.

"Before we met, I was bitter, vengeful. I sought to reclaim the kingdom that had been stolen from me, to avenge my husband, to make all of Archadia pay for Vayne's actions," Ashe said. "I thought only of my own suffering. I was too selfish to consider how the people I was supposed to protect had suffered. You owed me no allegiance, yet you supported me regardless, not for glory or honor or even revenge, but because all of Dalmasca had suffered, and you wanted only to end it. So you see, between the two of us, you have always been the more noble."

Unaccustomed to such praise, Penelo averted her eyes and refreshed their teacups. "I think you give me too much credit," she murmured.

"I think you give yourself too little." Ashe reached for Penelo's hand, clasped it in her own. "You will never know how close I came to choosing the wrong path," she said. "But for you and your faith in me, I might have done so. I might well have lead us all into ruin. But I learned from you that peace and vengeance are mutually exclusive, and so I gave up that path, and Dalmasca has been the better for it. And I still need you, Penelo - rather, all of Dalmasca needs you." She splayed out her hands entreatingly. "There are so few that I can trust. My father's courtiers are gone, fled - and they would have only their own interests at heart. The people of Dalmasca need one of their own to speak for them, someone they can trust to understand their plight, someone who has grown up amongst them, not the idle rich they knew before. You can be that - and you can help me to choose a new court, new advisors who will work for the advancement of all Dalmascans rather than simply exploiting the labor of the common man."

Penelo hesitated, weakened. "I'll be glad to help you to the best of my abilities," she said. "But this life, these clothes, all the bowing and scraping and subservience...I _hate_ it. I've spent all of my life in Rabanastre; I can't stay here and pour tea for the rest of it. I want to travel, to explore the world."

Ashe gave a short burst of surprised laughter. "I think I've given you a bit of a mistaken impression. Come," she said. She pushed back from the table, ushered Penelo to one of the massive windows. It provided a far-reaching view, well above the walls that encircled the city, and Ashe pointed far into the distance, past the wreck of the Bahamut, over lush green hills, towards the far eastern border of Dalmasca. "Your estate is in that direction, rather far removed from the city. It is currently under the care of a steward, and by all accounts he is doing a fine job. You've around four hundred tenants, and a lovely manor house surrounded by orchards. The rents and profits from the crops promise to provide a fine income. Of course, the management of the estate and care of the tenants will take a bit of your time, but much of those responsibilities could be undertaken by the steward, should you wish to keep him on."

Penelo gazed blankly out the window. An estate, with tenants. She had only vaguely understood before, in an abstract sort of way. But no one had explained the details, and she had felt far removed from the responsibility. Now it was real; now there were people who would depend upon her. She swallowed heavily. "Ashe, I...what if I make a complete muck of it? Don't they deserve to have someone _competent_ in this sort of thing?"

"You _are_. And you'll have the guidance of the steward. As well as mine, should you require it. It's not a prison, Penelo - it's freedom. Your estate will provide you the funds to travel, and your steward is equipped to handle your affairs in your absence. You'll not be confined to your estate; you'll be free to travel when and where you please." Ashe bestowed an affectionate smile upon Penelo. "Only now, you will always have a home to return to."

Penelo felt the sting of tears behind her eyes, a lump of emotion clogging her throat. Oh - a _home_. A place of her own, away from the cold sterility of the palace, away from all the obsequious servants. It had been years since she'd had even a shred of privacy, a place where she could have anything remotely approaching a life of her own. She sniffled, swiped at her cheeks, smiled as she watched Ashe pour a fresh cup of tea and a few errant drops splattered the white tablecloth. Larsa had been right; Ashe was out of practice.

"I'm not going to wear gowns," she said.

Ashe smiled over the rim of her own teacup. "By all means, summon a seamstress immediately if you please. I've no intention of dictating your manner of dress. Although you may wish to keep a few gowns on hand - for formal occasions, you understand."

An acceptable compromise; Penelo nodded. "I would also appreciate it if you might see fit to recall my jailors." She gestured to the two guards standing near the door.

"Ahh." Ashe gave a wry grin. "I'm afraid you must keep them for the time being."

"But why? Ashe, you must believe I don't intend to escape at the earliest opportunity. Any longer," she added sheepishly, at Ashe's pointed look.

"As a matter of fact, they were never truly intended to keep you imprisoned," Ashe replied. "They're meant more as a cautionary measure against Balthier. I really don't think he's above stealing you away if he saw the chance."

Though Penelo schooled her features into a neutral expression, she felt her shoulders slump, heard the desolation in her voice when she said, "It's not necessary. If he hasn't come already, it's unlikely that he will."

"Oh, I think you are mistaken. He has come; he is within the city already."

Penelo jerked as if she had been struck. "He is?"

"According to my sources, yes. I _could_ have him apprehended and removed from the city, but I imagine you might take that poorly." Ashe searched Penelo's stunned face. "Please understand; you have no one to speak for you. He has been unspeakably cruel in his treatment of you, and I...I cannot sit idly by and let him make a mockery of your feelings for him."

Hot color rose to Penelo's cheeks. "That is _really_ none of your business," she muttered, cheeks pink with mortification.

"Perhaps not. I know I'm overreaching, but I don't wish to see you hurt again. I don't mean to keep you from him, Penelo, if you wish to see him. I desire only to ascertain the nature of Balthier's attentions. As things stand, can you truly say you would trust him with your heart?" Ashe fixed her with a penetrating stare, daring her to search inside herself for the answer.

And Penelo could not meet her gaze. Of course she could not say that she trusted him. He had done little to earn her trust and much to destroy it. He was by his own admission selfish, and as much as her heart ached to acknowledge it, if she ran off with him she would be setting herself up for further devastation. He had so easily bowed out of her life before. If it happened again, if she risked her heart on him once more and he rejected it, it would destroy her. Only a fool would make the same mistake twice.

But then...she might be a fool. The mere announcement that he was within the city had set her heart pounding furiously, torn between the desperate hope that he would come and the heart-wrenching fear that he would devastate her once again.

"Penelo," Ashe's sympathetic voice cut through Penelo's self-pity, jerked her out of her painful reverie. "Don't mistake my meaning, I beg you. I am sure he will come, and I believe he cares for you a great deal. But shouldn't you like to be sure? If it is what you wish, by all means you should go with him - but you deserve more than to be merely a diversion, an amusement. This time, let him declare his intentions. Let _him_ take the risk for once, and see if he will prove himself worthy of you."

Penelo worried her lower lip between her teeth, considering Ashe's words. "But with the palace so well protected, he would be a fool to risk coming."

"Dear Penelo," Ashe sighed. "With you securely settled here and out of his reach, he would be a fool _not_ to come."

\--

A masked ball was held at the palace a week later, and all sorts of visiting foreign dignitaries had descended upon Rabanastre in droves, eager to be in attendance for the first formal event hosted by the queen.

Ashe had requested - though not demanded - Penelo's attendance as well, and Penelo had agreed to do so despite the fact that it would necessitate a return to the formal wear that she had eschewed over the past few days. Since her conversation with Ashe, life in the palace had been almost pleasant - the servants had, at her request, ceased their bowing and 'my lady'ing, and Ashe had made good on her promise to summon a seamstress to create a number of more comfortable garments.

Even the guards assigned to her no longer seemed quite as annoying as they had once been. They tolerated her good-natured attempts to escape them with remarkable aplomb, although she had sent them into a panic once when she had slid down the grand staircase banister, forcing them to run after her only to find her awaiting them at the bottom, laughing uproariously as they wheezed their way down the three flights. Still, they had been relieved that her black humor had disappeared and hadn't bothered to reprimand her for her prank.

The night of the ball, a maid bustled into her room, all exuberant eagerness as she flitted about, readying Penelo's gown and fussing with her hair.

The ball gown she had allowed Ashe to select for her, and had been surprisingly pleased with what had been chosen - a cap-sleeved gown that faded from so light a blue it was nearly white at the bodice to a deep, royal blue at the bottom of the skirt, sprinkled with seed pearls that glowed like stars in the night sky. Current fashion called for wide skirts that Penelo thought resembled cakes, with hoops so stiff that no wearer would dare to sit in it for fear that the skirts would fly right up over her head. But this gown - it was soft and fell smoothly to the floor, with gathered fabric that would cause it to bell out in a spin to form the illusion of wide skirts without the wildly impractical reality of them. Even the delicate silver slippers were perfect, fabric brushed to supple softness, none of the blister-inducing nonsense most of the other ladies would wear. And she was pleased to note that the hem of the gown left the toes of her slippers peeping out - she would not have to fear tripping on the hem of her gown and making an utter idiot of herself.

She allowed a lady's maid to affix a slim silver mask to her face and tie the strings behind her head, as well as to arrange her hair into an elegant, simple style, pinning it up and away from her face, leaving the back of her neck bare.

The maid shoved a few last pearl-tipped pins in her hair and pronounced her presentable, and Penelo thanked her, shoved away from the vanity, and rushed out the door. She was already a bit more than fashionably late, perhaps, but no names would be announced in deference to the nature of the ball, the masks concealing identities and allowing the attendees to mingle freely, so she would be relatively safe from censure.

Still, the slow descent into the ballroom from the grand staircase was nerve-wracking. She was acutely aware of eyes on her, endeavored not to betray her discomfort by flushing beneath such scrutiny. This was the worst of it - she was far more comfortable standing at the sidelines than in the thick of it, all eyes on her. But she made her entry, her curtsy before Ashe - who had a mask of her own but still managed to be eminently recognizable - and then drifted across the room, catching up a glass of champagne from a passing server as she went, to stand by the open balcony doors. The crowded room was overly warm; she relished the cool breeze that blew in as she sipped at her glass of chilled champagne.

Soon the orchestra struck up a tune, and the attendees fluttered to the sides of the ballroom to make way for those who wished to dance, those who did not breaking into smaller groups to facilitate conversation.

She watched the dancers swirl around the floor, bright ball gowns and black evening wear circling to the sweet strains of the music. Of course Ashe had taught her all of the dances, but etiquette dictated she must first wait to be asked to dance.

Movement at her side caught her attention; she turned her head to see Larsa beside her - though he, too, wore a mask, he was unmistakable for anyone else, what with Basch at his side, a constant, ever-watchful protector.

"You look well," Larsa said. "Happier. Am I to assume that you and Ashe have come to an understanding?" His lips twitched, amused when she rolled her eyes at him.

" _Yes_ , you interfering busybody, we have reconciled. Please, do not feel the need to subject me to any further lectures," she said.

"You know, I don't imagine anyone else in all of Ivalice would dare to refer to me as an _interfering busybody_ ," he said thoughtfully. "I can't quite decide if you've a natural aptitude for diplomatic relations or if you're simply so miserable at it that it becomes charming."

"I'd err of the side of charming, if I were you," she suggested. "If you do not wish me to step on your feet."

"Ahh, how remiss of me. I suppose that is my cue to request a dance," he said on a laugh. He sketched an elegant bow, held out his hand. "May I?"

She placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her towards the dance floor to await the next set. They made an odd couple, perhaps, with Larsa still some inches shorter than her, but she knew almost no one in attendance, and she did so want to dance.

When they took their places and the music began, it was for a sedate waltz that would require the dancers to change partners several times. She knew the steps, but she loathed the thought of having to attempt awkward small talk with strangers. But the music had started, and it was too late to back out, and so she let Larsa lead her around the floor until the first change came, and he turned away with a smile. She turned, too, to face her next partner, dropping into the brief, graceful curtsy required.

And then there was a warm hand clasping hers, and bright green eyes laughing down at her from behind a simple black domino mask.

She missed the step, but he smoothly covered for it, guiding her back into the rhythm of the dance.

"Careful." Balthier's warm voice washed over her. "You'll draw unwanted attention."

"How...how did you get in?" The words came out an unsteady whisper, nearly drowned out by the music.

He shrugged. "A masked ball is easy enough to infiltrate. As long as I looked the part, no one would dare question me for fear of offending a visiting dignitary or some such prestigious person."

And he did look the part, in stately black evening wear. She suspected that he would look splendid in anything, but it was the first she had seen of him dressed as a gentleman rather than a pirate. That he could wear the trappings of civility with such apparent ease was almost disconcerting - but then, he _had_ been raised to this sort of life.

The next partner change came, but Balthier refused to relinquish Penelo to the man who approached, whirling her away before the man could do more than mutter, "Well, I never!"

Penelo smothered a grin. " _I'll_ draw unwanted attention?"

"What, you would have me surrender you to that fop?"

"That _fop_ is a duke from Rozarria," she said. "Oh, dear, he'll certainly complain to Ashe and I'll never hear the end of it."

"Darling girl, you needn't hear even the beginning." He leaned close, whispered in her ear, "Come with me, and I'll steal you away from here."

She closed her eyes just for a moment, relishing the feel of his warm hand at her waist, his cheek on hers...let herself imagine saying yes, escaping from the crowded ballroom by way of the balcony, disappearing into the ether for grand adventures and a romance that had no foundation in any reality she'd ever known . Then she took a steadying breath, relinquished that beautiful, impossible dream, opened her eyes, and instead said, "No."


	25. Chapter 25

"No?" Balthier repeated inanely. She had _refused_ him?

A wistful smile. "It's simply not possible, Balthier."

"Of course it is. I managed to get in, didn't I?"

"Ashe has me under constant watch; _you_ might be able to sneak in, but _I_ would never be able to escape. And I wouldn't, even were it possible." She managed to keep the smile from slipping - he would never know how it wounded her to refuse him, how it wounded her that he thought of her as a _thing_ to be stolen. How hard it was to blink back the threatening tears before her vision blurred! What a terrible mess - how lamentable that she, who had so rarely been driven to tears in the past, seemed to find herself constantly driven to them by him.

Another partner change came and went, another rebuffed gentleman flounced off to partner the similarly abandoned lady. His grip only tightened on her as if asserting his ownership; his jaw clenched, she imagined that behind the black mask, his brow might be furrowed in confusion.

"I thought you wished to travel," he murmured.

"I do. And I will. But you cannot _steal_ me away, Balthier," she said in a deliberately light tone. "I'm not a pawn you can use to thumb your nose at Ashe. I'm not a possession."

"Perhaps I phrased that poorly. Penelo -" But the last strains of the music were fading, and the floor was emptying. "Damn, there's no time."

"You ought to go," she said softly. "You've already been noticed." And she nodded to indicate Ashe, who was speaking to a pair of guards and gesturing to where Penelo and Balthier stood. Balthier made an irritated sound in his throat, his mouth compressing into a thin line, betraying his frustration.

"I shall return," he said.

"I don't think that would be wise." She clasped her hands demurely before her. Poised, calm, collected - she would not shame Ashe by acting anything other than the perfect lady this night. The guards were threading their way through the crowd, slowly approaching; he could stay no longer, and she was glad, because she could not hold her pretense of civilized detachment forever.

But in what would no doubt incite weeks of scandalous gossip, Balthier swept her into his arms and kissed her. "Then I am afraid I shall have to be unwise," he said as he released her. And he disappeared into the crowd on the opposite side of the dance floor only moments before the guards appeared.

\--

The Sandsea tavern was a rather rough-and-tumble establishment, known for its rotgut whiskey and barely edible food, but Vaan was known to frequent it regularly despite his recently elevated circumstances, and it was there that Balthier found him, slouched over a mug at the bar. Though he suspected that Vaan would be less than thrilled to see him, Balthier was intensely aware that he had exhausted most of his options, and Vaan was all that remained.

So he dropped onto the barstool beside Vaan and said, "I need your help."

Vaan skewered Balthier with a glare over the rim of his mug. "What the hell has possessed you that you think _I_ would be predisposed to help you? I was inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt, at least until we heard about your treatment of Penelo in Balfonheim - and then to hear nothing from her in weeks!"

" _That_ was a misunderstanding," Balthier muttered crossly. "I had actually begun to make progress with Penelo, in fact, before Ashe took her from me."

" _Make progress_?" Vaan echoed incredulously. "Is _that_ what you're calling it? Because it seems to me like you've put your foot in it again, and Penelo has suffered for it."

" _No_ , damn it." Balthier sighed, raking his fingers through his hair, by sheer dint of will resisting the urge to throttle Vaan to within an inch of his life. A half-inch, perhaps. "Whatever damning nonsense you've concocted in your head, I can promise you that it is _not_ what you're thinking."

Vaan narrowed his eyes shrewdly on Balthier's face, assessing the scowl etched upon his normally-neutral face. "So you're claiming you _didn't_ chase her down and hold her against her will? You _didn't_ take her to bed again?"

The scowl deepened; Balthier's eyes slid away almost guiltily. He opened his mouth briefly as if to argue his case, then promptly snapped it shut with a sound of vexation.

"As I thought," Vaan snorted in disgust. He tossed back the last of his ale, slamming the mug on the counter as he swiveled in his seat to face Balthier. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't beat you to a pulp."

The threat got Balthier's hackles up; he stared Vaan down with that singular combination of arrogance and disdain that Vaan had always loathed. "Aside from the fact that I would wipe the floor with you - you've got talent, mind, but you haven't experience enough to have developed it properly - _I am going to marry her_."

Cold anger fled, replaced by disbelief - Vaan gaped, uncomprehending. "Huh?"

Intensely aware of the hush that had come over the tavern as its other occupants watched the scene before them unfold, Balthier snagged Vaan's collar, dragged him close, hissed his response. "If you value your life, you will not make me repeat myself. Let's take this conversation to somewhere more private, shall we?"

"Yeah," Vaan mumbled. "There's private rooms upstairs; gimme a minute." Balthier's fingers slowly uncurled, releasing Vaan's collar, allowing the younger man to fumble in his pocket for a handful of gil, which he plunked down on the counter. From the barkeep he collected a bottle of whiskey, two glasses, and a large silver key.

The two men retreated up the stairs, and Vaan shoved the whiskey and glasses at Balthier while he managed the lock and let them into the room. It was small and sparsely furnished; just a round, wooden table, the surface of which had been scratched beyond salvation. The table was surrounded by a cluster of wooden chairs, and they, too, had seen better days. Even a good sanding and refinishing would hardly aid the massacred furniture.

"Sorry it's not up to your exacting standards," Vaan said snidely, taking note of Balthier's distaste. "Not all of us grew up in the lap of luxury. Penelo's far more comfortable in _these_ surroundings than in the palace, so you might as well get used to it."

Balthier dropped into a chair, leaned back, plonked his boots on the scarred surface of the table. "I do enjoy my creature comforts, but I'll make do with whatever I can get. I left Archadia with naught but the clothes on my back and a stolen airship; it was rough going until I made my way as a pirate."

Vaan cracked open the bottle of whiskey, poured a generous amount in each glass, slid one across the table towards Balthier. "Have you come, then, to ask for permission to court Penelo?"

An inelegant snort. "I'm not asking for _permission_ to do a damn thing," Balthier snapped. "And even if I were, I would hardly be asking yours. I'll do as I please. As it happens, it would please me to rescue Penelo from Her Majesty's...hospitality."

"What if Penelo doesn't want to be rescued?" Vaan sipped his whiskey, the picture of nonchalance.

"Of course she does," Balthier responded immediately. "She loathes it there. You must know she does."

"Allow me to rephrase," Vaan leaned forward, leveled a meaningful stare at Balthier. "What if she doesn't want to be rescued by _you_?"

Balthier's boots hit the floor with enough force to cause the bottle of whiskey on the table to wobble. "She does," he said. "She must. She loves me." He grabbed for his glass of whiskey, swallowed a mouthful, grimaced. "Gods, that's foul."

Vaan didn't care much for it either, but at least he wasn't so high in the instep that he couldn't manage it without flinching. "She _used_ to love you," he said. "You've shot yourself in the foot with your treatment of her. She deserved better than you - a fact of which I imagine she is now very much aware. I'm surprised she didn't simply jump ship and abandon you." Balthier blanched, and Vaan swore. "She did, didn't she? What, did you chase her down and drag her back? Does what _she_ wants mean _nothing_ to you?"

Balthier set his glass down, scrubbed his face with his hands, sighed heavily. He composed himself, leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "The reports you heard were greatly exaggerated," he said. "Specifically, in Balfonheim - yes, I carried her off kicking and screaming. She'd over-imbibed; I simply wanted her out of the city before she made herself ill." He hesitated briefly. "And yes, she did later flee from me, and I did chase her down. Perhaps in the moment she was angry that I pursued her, but in the weeks that followed she could have fled again a hundred times and yet she stayed. I broke trust with her before, but I _was_ regaining it before your queen snatched her away."

Vaan...believed him. Which was a shock in and of itself, but caution compelled him to ask: "She's been here over a week. What's taken you so long, then?"

Balthier made a rough sound in his throat with an expression that might've passed for something akin to embarrassment. He dug in his pocket and withdrew a small, gold ring and held it aloft.

Vaan's eyebrows arched - Balthier had come prepared. That said something for his sincerity, at least. "It takes a week to find a suitable ring?"

"It does when one wishes to have it inscribed," Balthier shot back snidely.

Vaan held out his hand for it. "Let me see."

Balthier snatched it away, sneering. "Not a chance."

"I'm making it a condition of my assistance," Vaan said. "I'm _this_ close to actually believing you might be sincere enough to merit going against Ashe's orders."

A long-suffering sigh; Balthier relinquished the ring to Vaan, dropping it into his palm and folding his arms over his chest. Carefully expressionless, he waited impatiently as Vaan turned the ring in his fingers, letting the light catch the delicate lettering on the inner curve of the ring.

Vaan's brows jerked toward his hairline as he read the simple inscription. He cleared his throat and handed the ring back to Balthier, who glowered at him as if daring him to comment.

"All right," Vaan said. "I'll help you."

\--

Penelo enjoyed the cooler weather, taking her tea out on the terrace leading down to the sprawling gardens, poring over a stack of correspondence that Ashe had handed over to her. It seemed to all be from the steward managing what was now Penelo's estate, detailing the manor house, the tenants, the crops. He was nothing if not thorough; he had been sending letters twice a week for months, apparently.

Of course, Ashe would not yet allow her to visit the estate; she deemed it too risky a move considering Balthier's propensity towards thievery. But she felt that the steward's letters provided a rather clear picture of it - and her desire to see it for herself surprised her. It _did_ sound lovely; golden fields of wheat, apple orchards, a stream running through the vast gardens crossed with stonework bridges that climbed with ivy and shaded by wisteria and willows.

She was penning a letter of her own in response when Vaan dropped into the chair across the table. He, too, had eschewed formal wear for a more casual style, his shaggy hair falling over his forehead, seeming in perpetual want of a good cut. A servant passed by, placing another tea cup down on the tray before Penelo as she went, and Penelo dutifully poured and watched Vaan clumsily handle the delicate china with no small amount of amusement.

"What brings you?" she asked.

"Wanted to see how you were holding up, being cooped up here and all," he said.

"It started miserably, but it's grown tolerable, I suppose. Actually, I'd like to go visit this estate. _My_ estate, I mean. But Ashe won't hear of it, not while Balthier's in Rabanastre. She thinks he'll try to kidnap me or something," she ended on an unconscious sigh.

Vaan shifted forward, lowering his voice in so they would not be overheard by the guards lingering nearby. "I saw him last night," he said.

"Did you?" She returned her gaze to the letter before her, affecting a disinterested expression.

"He asked for my help in liberating you."

The letter dropped from her fingers, instantly abandoned. " _Liberating_ me?" she scoffed. Her chin lifted, her eyes narrowed. "What rubbish. It's just a pretty word for _stealing_. But then, he _is_ a thief, for all he'd like to paint it in a more flattering light."

"I don't think -"

"Vaan, don't tell me you _agreed_ to this nonsense." She fixed him with a disapproving look.

"Fine, I won't tell you," he huffed. "Just come walk with me for a moment, and I'll explain." He stood, offered her his hand. After a moment of indecision, she rose to her feet and sorted the papers on the table into a neat pile, then laid her hand on Vaan's arm.

The guards made to follow as they headed towards the gardens, but Vaan waved them away. "I've got her," he said. "Won't let her out of my sight - but we'd like a few moments of privacy, if you please. I'll return her to you shortly." And the guards, familiar with Vaan, did as they were bid. Penelo felt a twinge of annoyance - of course they would obey _Vaan_.

"You missed Ashe's ball," Penelo chastised gently.

"Ah, come on, Penelo. I was never any good at that sort of thing. Not like you." He lead her along the cobblestone walkway, behind the first row of hedges. "Never could get the hang of all that etiquette stuff. Too many rules; seems pointless."

"I think speaking in complete sentences would make a nice start," she said. "You're dropping words from yours like they're ten gil a piece and you're trying to cut costs." The fragrant scent of roses drifted out to meet them as they passed into a new section of the gardens, bursting with hundreds of varieties of them. The meticulously trimmed hedges abutted stone walls which were adorned by a thick blanket of yellow climbing tea roses. Penelo had never particularly cared for the perfume of them - it was too sweet, too cloying - but she did love the satiny softness of the petals, the way they furled tightly in on themselves until the sun coaxed them into lush bloom, the vast array of colors they boasted.

"Don't suppose it really matters much, in the long run," Vaan said. "Who'd dare correct me? Besides Ashe, that is."

Penelo smiled, stroking the downy-soft petals of a lovely lilac rose anchored by a trellis to the stone wall. "I would. You really _do_ have terrible manners, you know. Someone's got to try to break you of your bad habits. You should visit the palace more often; I've got nothing but time." She cupped the fragile blossom in her hand, but instead of the overly sweet scent of roses, she thought she smelled...sandalwood. The chill of the air was chased away by a radiating heat at her back, and when a warm hand cupped her shoulder, she already knew she would not find Vaan when she turned around.

Traitor.

Her hand curled reflexively into a fist; a thorn pierced her index finger. She did not flinch, but drew her hand away, sucking away the droplet of blood that welled on the pad of her finger.

"Where is Vaan?" she asked.

"Elsewhere, as he should be." His voice was a warm, low rumble, conjuring up erotic memories that brought an answering heat to her cheeks. But she kept her gaze focused on the rose she had crushed in her fingers; the blossom drooped on its stem, petals bruised.

"You shouldn't be here." But his free hand was sweeping her hair over her shoulder, exposing the nape of her neck, and she felt his lips press a tender kiss there and closed her eyes against the ache that stabbed her heart.

"Darling girl, I _did_ say that I would return. Am I not a man of my word?"

She took a deep, steadying breath, steeling herself against the warmth of his hands on her bare arms, the heat of his chest at her back. "I don't know, Balthier. Are you?" She had intended the words to be light, distant, but they came out trembling and wistful instead, imbued with all the uncertainty that had tormented her in the past weeks. Shame assailed her - she had never intended to give him another weapon he might wield against her. Head bowed, she muttered, "I don't know you at all."

His fingers tightened fractionally. "You still don't trust me," he said slowly, in a wondering tone, as if he had not considered this fact.

A helpless bubble of laughter escaped, before she muffled it with a hand clapped over her mouth. "Don't sound so incredulous; you must know you don't exactly inspire confidence. Considering our history, I'd have to be a fool to trust you." She shrugged off his hands, composed herself, turned to face him. "It was bound to end sometime, Balthier. You ought to be grateful, really. Ashe saved you the trouble of staging your death when you'd grown bored." She neatly side-stepped, no longer backed up against the wall of roses. "But at least you've got the Strahl; that should please you."

The faint bitterness in her tone made him wince. She was freezing him out; she had convinced herself that he had been amusing himself with her, that he had pursued her here only because she had been taken before he was ready to relinquish her. She thought he could be appeased with the offer of the Strahl in her place, as if the ship were more valuable, more precious. As if she were merely a toy that could be easily exchanged for another. And he realized that she _did_ think that, that his emotions were that shallow. Of a certainty he had not given her cause to think anything else, at least not in regard to her.

Somehow, he had thought this would be simple - sneak into the palace, find the girl, present the ring, spirit her away to freedom. But her face was guarded, wary. In the safety of the palace, she held all the power. He could not coax or cajole her into coming away with him, nor could he steal her away. And he thought that she truly believed that he might prefer it this way, that he might welcome the chance to bow out gracefully, pride intact. With a stab of remorse, he realized that it was more than he had ever given her - he had savaged her pride over and over. Small wonder that she did not trust him.

Her hands were clasped loosely before her, but her shoulders were stiff, as if it took all of her strength to keep from wilting like the flower she'd inadvertently crushed. He eased a step closer, tentatively, afraid she might flee if he got too close, but was gratified that she held her ground. He lifted a hand, cupped her cheek - her eyes widened just a fraction, she tensed as if poised to run - rubbed his thumb across the sweet curve of her lower lip.

"Dare I ask why you think I returned?" he asked.

"Pride, I suppose." Her lower lip brushed his thumb as she spoke. "Anger. The chance to tweak Ashe's nose."

"No. Nothing so simple." He drew his fingers along the smoothness of her cheek, cupped the back of her neck, slid his fingers into the cool silk of her hair.

"Why, then?" Her palms flattened against his chest as he gently tugged her closer, but she exerted no pressure - not forcing him away, but keeping her options open nonetheless. So he kept his hold light, nonthreatening; the barest caress at the nape of her neck, the careful pressure of his other arm at her back.

He ignored her question; she would not yet believe an honest answer. "Fair warning, darling, I'm going to kiss you."

The downward sweep of her lashes, the minutest trembling of her lips. Dear, sweet girl, trying so hard to be strong, resolved to refuse him despite the pain it caused, doing her best not to let him see how it devastated her. "What purpose would it serve, Balthier?" she whispered, and it was not truly a question, more like a hopeless, resigned statement. "I can't go with you."

Not _wouldn't_ , but _couldn't_. And he didn't think it had anything to do with Ashe's protection - rather, she was in a prison of her own making, trapped by the doubts and fears he had instilled in her, unable to place her heart in the hands of the man who had broken it too many times already. Her heart was encased in a thicket of thorns, but he had sown the seeds of mistrust, so perhaps he ought not to have been surprised at what crop they had yielded. He had been so careless in the past; how could she trust him to be careful with it in the future?

She couldn't. Of course she couldn't - he would have to teach her to trust him. He ran his index finger along the curve of her jaw, tipping up her chin to raise her face to his. Her fingers curled, scraping across the fabric of his shirt, drawing in a shaky breath. "The guards," she whispered. "They'll come looking eventually..."

His lips brushed the apple of her cheek, and her eyes closed. "I imagine there's at least a few minutes left before they begin to grow suspicious. Really, the queen was scraping the bottom of the barrel with those two; a more inept pair I've yet to see," he said. He kissed the corner of her mouth, the lush curve of her lower lip, hardly more than a whisper of sensation. "I could steal you away right now, I imagine. They'd have to search the whole of the gardens for you first."

She tensed, going rigid against him, sweet pink lips flattening into a firm line. "I won't go quietly," she said. "I'll scream, I'll -"

"Darling, it was an observation, not a threat," he soothed. "I've no desire to abscond with an unwilling captive; it's such a fuss. No, you're going to come with me of your own free will."

"I won't."

An affectionate buss against her forehead. "Not today, perhaps. But eventually, yes, I think you will."

A high-pitched, discordantly-whistled tune preceded Vaan a few seconds before he reappeared, as if he thought to provide warning of his presence lest he catch them in a torrid embrace. And while Balthier's arm wrapped around her waist could hardly be called torrid, he nonetheless raised an eyebrow.

"Well?" Vaan prompted.

Balthier shook his head. "Not today." He tucked an errant lock of hair behind Penelo's ear and drew away to a respectable distance. "Until next we meet, darling."

And Penelo's stomach clenched with the uneasy feeling that 'next time' would be a good deal sooner than she had anticipated.


	26. Chapter 26

Two days later, Penelo found herself once more in the library to return _Archadian Myths and Legends_ to its proper place on the shelves. Her guards were some distance away, engaged in conversation, flanking the door against unwanted intruders. In no particular hurry, she browsed the titles lining the shelves before finally slipping the book from her pocket to set it in its proper place.

"What have you got there?" a familiar voice asked in a low whisper.

She jumped, gasped, eyes lighting on Balthier, who was stretched out lazily in one of the wingback chairs, the high back concealing his presence from the guards some fifty feet away. He had clearly been there a while, had watched her stroll right past him while she'd been none the wiser.

"My la - er, Miss Penelo," one of the guards - Ferrin, she thought - said. "Is aught amiss?"

"N-no," she said, stretching her lips into what she hoped approximated a guileless smile. "I thought I saw...a mouse. But I was mistaken."

"A mouse?" Balthier mouthed the words, a tawny brow arching at the lie.

"A _rat_ ," she corrected in a harsh whisper from between clenched teeth.

Oblivious to the interchange between Penelo and her unseen companion, Ferrin scratched his head. "A mouse? P'raps I'd better check," Ferrin said, "Can't have mice wandering all willy-nilly through the palace. It'd upset the maids, and the queen, like as not, if one chanced upon her."

"I. Was. Mistaken." Penelo repeated. "Do return to your post, sir. I wish to read for a time, and I should not like to be disturbed." She studiously avoided so much as glancing at Balthier, who had only just managed to smother a chortle at the waspish tone she had employed. Not for nothing has she learned to deliver such a sharp set-down, but Balthier's presence merely served to remind her that the words were not her own - she was ever the imposter, affecting the mannerisms of her betters.

Brows drawn together in confusion at the rebuff, Ferrin mumbled a half-hearted, "Yes, miss," and slunk back towards the door, returning to his conversation with Bain. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding.

Balthier gestured to the book in her hand, keeping his voice low in deference to their unwitting chaperones. "Give it here."

Defensively, her fingers curled around the spine of the small book. "No. I only came to return it. My reading material is none of your business." And she shoved the book back in its place, planting her hands on her hips. Thankfully, from the perspective of the guards, she would appear only to be browsing the shelves.

Balthier let out an aggrieved sigh. "Third book from the left, middle shelf. I'll retrieve it myself if I must, but those two idiots are bound to notice if I do. And being caught sneaking into the palace _does_ have the regrettable tendency to land one in a jail cell." He cradled his chin in his hand, a patently false look of innocence gracing his face. "How could you live with yourself having me clapped in irons?"

A low sound emerged from her throat, a feral growl of annoyance. She wrestled with herself a moment, then grabbed the book off the shelf, tossed it at him, and flounced into the seat opposite him, heaving a sigh.

He turned the book over in his hands, inspecting the cover. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I trust it was entertaining? Did you find what you were looking for?"

She covered her face with her hands, sinking into her chair. "Why are you here, Balthier?"

"Darling girl, where else should I be?" He held the book in his hands, letting it fall open, and she knew what he would find - the page that had been turned to so often that it had warped the spine. She managed a cautious glance in his direction; his lips twitched with barely-restrained amusement. "Ahh, I see. A bit curious, then, were you?"

She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, breathing deeply. Of course he would taunt her with it; why had she expected anything less?

"Really, Balthier, I would not have thought you the sort to favor tragic romances."

A carefully-modulated chuckle. "Somehow, tragic romances feel a bit more real than happily-ever-afters. Did you enjoy it?"

"No," she said succinctly. "I've had enough tragedy in my life, thank you."

"I think you _did_ enjoy it," he countered. "What woman wouldn't feel any sort of kinship for poor, doomed Ceremina?"

"Poor _Ceremina_?" she whispered incredulously. "That pitiful, insipid thing? She ruined lives with her weakness. What utter rubbish - how could I feel a kinship for a woman unwilling to take her future into her own hands?" She huffed, offended to be lumped into the same category as the feeble heroine.

"Ahh, so perhaps it's Balthier who holds your sympathies, then?" His gaze slid over her face, searching out secrets. "He could not be described as weak - a man who would do anything for the sake of love, make of himself a villain just to win his lady."

His voice was low, warm, his tone coaxed a blush to her cheeks, as though her heart read something in his words that her mind could not comprehend. She slunk down in her chair, mumbled, "But he had the misfortune to choose an unworthy lady."

"Not so unworthy, I think. She chose death over going to another man. Rather than live without him, she chose not to live."

"Yes, and left him to mourn her - for the few hours before he ended his own life. There's always another way; she took the easiest path because she lacked the strength to forge the hard road. Her weakness destroyed their lives. She hadn't the will to continue on without him-" With a gasp, she pressed her lips together to stem the flow of words - suddenly the conversation had struck too close to the wounded heart of her.

A sigh. "Darling girl, do you think you might ever be prevailed upon to forgive me?"

She had already forgiven him. It had come as in chapters of a book, a page at a time - the night he had chased away her nightmares, the day that he had taken her to visit Sarema's grave, how in Rozarria he had purchased her the heartfruit she had been so intrigued with - until she had closed the book on the hurt she had been nurturing so long. But that was only a fraction of it; forgiveness she had granted - the lack of trust was the bitter, aching wound that scored her heart. She wasn't a trophy, or an object to be won, or stolen, or bought.

She was...she was Ceremina, too weak, too wounded to grab for the things she wanted, to dream impossible dreams when even her reality had crumbled around her. How could she be expected to build castles in the clouds when she could not even manage to erect a solid foundation on the earth?

Such a hopeless prospect; she didn't want to think about it. So she deflected his question with one of her own: "How did you manage to get into the palace?"

He smiled wryly, accepting the deflection with good grace. "Oh, there are ways," he said. "Vaan, in particular, has been most helpful."

"The Garamsythe waterway," she groaned. "He must have dismantled the barrier from the inside."

"Very astute," he responded. "Tell me, will you alert the queen to the crack in her otherwise impenetrable fortress?"

"I..." She hesitated - he wanted _her_ to decide whether or not he would find himself barred from the palace? "I..."

"Miss Penelo, would you care for tea?" Bain called the offer from his position at the doorway; she craned her neck to see him speaking with a maid.

"Yes, please," she responded absently. Then her eyes widened with horror on Balthier beside her, at the empty space between the two chairs where the maid would inevitably wheel the tea cart and of a certainty raise the alarm when she discovered Balthier there. "No! No, actually, I was just about to return to my room." She drew in quick breath. "I'll take tea there, please."

Balthier grinned at her. "I take it you'll not be informing the queen after all," he said, "or you'd have already seized your opportunity to have me thrown in a cell."

"If you find yourself apprehended, it'll be no one's fault but your own," she hissed. "What is the matter with you? You're reckless, but not foolish - you _must_ know it's only a matter of time before you are caught."

He stretched out his arm, offering the book back to her. "Some things are worth the risk, darling."

Visibly flustered, she abandoned the chair, making a big production of replacing _Archadian Myths and Legends_ on the shelf, then selecting another at random. She passed by him on her way towards the door but carefully refrained from so much as glancing at him. Of course, if she had it might've aroused the suspicion of her guards - but he suspected she was trying to prove a point. Not to him, of course; he could still knock her off balance easily enough. But to prove to herself that she could walk away and not look back. He wondered if she'd counted it a success.

\--

Penelo was giving _serious_ thought to telling Ashe about the unguarded Garamsythe waterway entrance, for her own peace of mind. Not that she wanted Balthier to languish away in a prison cell, exactly, but at least if he _were_ locked up, she would know his precise location and he would be unable to treat her to any more surprise visits.

Although she wondered if it would even do her any good - he appeared at such frequent intervals that she wondered if he ever actually left the palace at all. It was such a massive, sprawling estate that she supposed he could probably have commandeered an unused bedroom if he wished, and have no fear of being discovered. And he did have the alarming propensity for appearing in the oddest of places, as if he had been lying in wait for her.

Currently, her guards thought the palace was under a siege of the tiny, bewhiskered, four-footed variety, since she'd had to claim a possible mouse sighting more than once since Balthier's surprise appearance in the library - perversely, he seemed to enjoy shocking her into gasping or shrieking with his ever-more-daring appearances.

Midmorning, and she was out on the terrace, popping bits of flaky pastry into her mouth and sweetening her tea when she glanced up mid-bite to see him leaning casually against a pillar. The resulting gasp caused her to choke; she was overtaken by a coughing fit, thrusting out a hand to ward off one of the guards who had approached in concern. She croaked out an assurance that she would be fine, and the guard backed away, appeased. And not a second too soon, for if he'd taken just one or two more steps forward, Balthier would have come into his line of sight, revealed behind the pillar.

"Are you _insane_?" she whispered as soon as the guard had returned to his post. "You're sure to be caught! _Anyone_ could see you!"

"Why, darling, I might almost think you were worried for me," he snickered, ducking his head to peek around the pillar and ascertain the whereabouts of the two guards for himself. "Really, palace security is going all to hell on her majesty's watch. I'm surprised no one's walked away with the contents of the treasury yet. They've all but posted a sign reading, 'Thieves welcome.'"

"Don't you dare -"

"Please, I've a fortune of my own; I've no need to pilfer gold and jewels from the queen." That vibrant green gaze raked over her. "I've a far more valuable treasure in mind. Do tell me: where are they keeping you these days?"

She blinked, nonplussed. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your room, darling. Which is it? Making a search of the entire palace is a waste of valuable time which could better be spent on...other things." That licentious smirk; what unmitigated gall he had! As if she would simply give him license to visit her whenever he pleased!

"No, I think not." She relished the aggrieved expression he wore. "It's bad enough tripping over you wherever I go as it is; I'm hardly inclined to invite you to my bedroom."

"A hint," he demanded. "A floor, a wing."

"I value my privacy," she responded primly.

He heaved a sigh. "You must know that I shall discover it eventually."

She finished off her pastry, licking the crumbs from her fingertips, enjoying the low, agonized groan he gave. It was a heady sensation, for once to be on the winning side of a skirmish with him. "Perhaps you will," she said. "But you will find the door barred against you."

"You underestimate my skill with a lock pick," he chided.

"A literal bar, Balthier." She fluttered her eyelashes, pleased, for once, to be in control. "Ashe seemed to think I might be well served by a bit of additional protection. Unless you've a battering ram, I'm afraid you'll be quite out of luck."

"You maddening wench; you're quite enjoying this, aren't you?" He seemed simultaneously appalled and impressed.

"Hmm. Yes, I rather think I am." A sweet smile; what could he do, really? Any move he made toward her would be the last - he'd be clapped in irons quicker than he could blink. Her guards were woefully unobservant, yes, but not _that_ unobservant. Finally _she_ held all the aces, and the power shift was intoxicating; she had never guessed that she would enjoy needling him half as much as she did.

He was tense, as if every muscle in his body ached to make a desperate grab for her. Yet he remained motionless, knowing she had won this round and that he was powerless to force her to cede to his wishes. "All right, darling, have your fun. But know that I shall have my revenge - and it shall be sweet indeed." And he disappeared into the shadows for parts unknown, her guards none the wiser.

\--

Three days had passed in relative peace; Balthier had not sought her out again. Surprisingly, she felt...almost disappointed. She _did_ miss him, she supposed - she could never have claimed boredom while in his company. But he would inevitably grow bored of her; once she was no longer a novelty, desired purely because she was forbidden, he would throw her off in search of greater things, grander adventures. Better to refuse him now and frustrate him into giving up the chase than to be devastated once again when he cast her aside. A small bit of suffering now to prevent another heartbreak.

But she was growing dreadfully weary of palace life. The only thing of any interest left to her was managing her estate, and her steward was doing that admirably in her absence - indeed, she felt the poor fellow was struggling under the weight of the myriad letters she'd dashed off to him. Perhaps in a few weeks, when she could be reasonably sure that Balthier had accepted the futility of his pursuit, Ashe would allow her to visit her estate to see it for herself.

After a long day of letter-writing interspersed with staring aimlessly out the window and wandering the library for a book to relieve her all-encompassing boredom, she wanted nothing more than to fall into bed. She arrived at her room, her guards at her heels.

As ever, they opened the massive, heavy door themselves to let her into her room. "Thank you, gentlemen. I'll call should I require anything," she said, and dragged the door shut behind her. They would stay outside her door, of course, until relieved by the night guards. And even though Balthier could not possibly hope to make it past the ever-present guards unseen, she nonetheless slid down the heavy steel bolt, rendering the door impossible to open from the outside without significant force.

"That's the thing about bars, darling. They must be engaged from the inside."

She whirled around; Balthier was emerging from the bathroom where he had secreted himself away and out of sight. He looked supremely satisfied with himself, fairly swaggering on his approach. And something in her chest fluttered, just a bit, like a baby bird testing its wings.

"How...how did you know which room was mine?" The palace was a maze of wings and floors. He could have spent days searching - she caught her breath; he _had_ spent days searching! That was why she'd seen hide nor hair of him for the last few days!

"The soap," he said. "There must be hundreds of rooms in the palace, but yours is the only one with lavender scented soap. Her majesty seems to prefer roses." He wasn't remotely abashed at his actions; his cocky smirk grated on her nerves. "Of course, I've been here for some time. Quite boring here all on my own, but I couldn't chance you locking me out. So I've been doing some investigating to keep myself occupied."

"Investigating...?" She gasped. "You've been snooping through my things!"

"Such an unpleasant word, snooping. Investigating sounds so much more refined."

" _Refined_? You had no right to paw through my belongings!"

" _Do_ remember there are guards just outside the door, sweet. You'll have to keep your voice down," he scolded lightly, as he moved towards her dresser and tapped a drawer. "I was particularly taken with the contents of this one."

Her undergarments, all the lacy, frilly things that Ashe had somehow talked her into ordering, with a charmingly persuasive speech about how all women deserved a bit of beauty in their lives, to own soft, pretty, feminine things. She felt that familiar wave of heat sweeping over her as outrage warred with embarrassment, clenched her fists to resist the urge to pat her cool hands to her hot cheeks.

"How I have missed those blushes of yours," he said silkily, all masculine satisfaction, further stoking her ire. "I _did_ tell you I would have my revenge, did I not?"

"I could call for the guards." Her voice trembled; her words revealed for the idle threat they were.

A sly smile; he strolled towards her so slowly, his easy gait unhurried - no longer confined to places unseen by ever-present guards, he had all the time in the world. "You could," he said. "But I think you would have already had you intended it. And so here we are, darling. Alone at last." He stopped mere inches before her, raising a hand to stroke her flushed cheek. The past few weeks had been torturous; he could seek her out, see her, speak with her, and yet she was untouchable - her constant companions ensured it. But no longer - her skin was soft, warm beneath his fingertips, and, oh, how he had missed the feel of her, the scent of her.

Those incredible blue eyes were so wide, watching intently, waiting. A few days ago, she had been full of smug amusement at his predicament, but now that he had caught her in her own trap she was all breathless disbelief, outraged indignity. But she swayed on her feet towards the pressure of his fingers, helpless to do anything but wait for him to announce his intentions. And then her gaze strayed over his shoulder, to the massive four-poster bed behind him.

He smiled like he'd won; she wanted to stop on his foot. Instead she jerked her face away from his hand, glared. "Go."

"How would you propose I do that?" he asked innocently. "Your door is under watch; I'll certainly be captured should I leave." He reached up, snagged the ribbon binding her hair, tugged at the end, watched her hair tumble free. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me until morning, darling, unless you should call for the guards."

It was a challenge. Oh, he was clever, and so, so devious. Forcing her to choose between her imprisonment with him or his in jail. His fingers had slipped into her hair, warm and gentle on the back of her neck, not overpowering her, just...touching, stroking. Soothing, rhythmic motions that drove argument from her mind, eased away the tension that had plagued her.

"That's not fair," she said.

"On the contrary," he replied. "It's your security. Your choice, sweet. If at any point you wish to be free of me, simply summon the guards." His hands trespassed no lower than her shoulders, unthreatening, merely...savoring, she thought. Reveling in his victory, because he knew she wouldn't call for help, wouldn't consign him to a cell. She could curse him for that certainty.

Her eyes narrowed on his face, on that indignation-inducing grin. Her hands fisted at her sides as if in preparation for battle. "Just what, exactly, do you plan to do?"

"Anything you like. Or nothing." He withdrew his hands from her shoulders, clasped them behind his back as though he didn't trust himself not to touch her. "Save for leaving this room, I am yours to command."

"Why?"

"You enjoyed your little power play a few days past, and I find that I enjoyed your enjoyment." And he had, actually. Sparring with her was, as ever, proving most entertaining. She was endlessly fascinating; he thought he could be with her for years and still never know the half of what went on inside that mystifying, perplexing mind of hers. She would _never_ bore him.

Her eyes flickered to the door, where, just beyond, rescue waited, had she need of it. She could always call...if he put so much as a single finger out of line. _Hers to command_? She rather liked the sound of that. "You will do whatever I say?" she asked, doubtfully.

"Within reason," he agreed readily enough. "Of course there are limits. You can hardly expect me to throw myself from the balcony, for example."

"Fine." She thrust out her arm, pointing to indicate the small, elegant sitting area near the balcony; far enough away from the door that they would not be overheard, provided neither of them shouted. "Sit. There."

"So imperious," he tsked. "Power gone to your head already, darling?"

"I don't believe I asked for your opinion," she said sweetly. "Shall I summon the guards?"

"No need." And he complied with her order, moving across the room to take a seat on the sofa. Of course he looked ridiculous upon it; the dainty wooden frame with its floral-pattered upholstery at odds with his rakish appearance. She followed a few steps behind, out of his reach.

"Surely you'd like to change into something more comfortable," he said, and his gaze strayed to the drawer in which her underthings were kept. She snorted; he should be so lucky. But those green eyes latched onto her, smoldered with intent. "I should like to change into something more comfortable," he said.

What could he...? Her eyes widened as his fingers went to the buttons of his vest; she threw out a staying hand. "No! You'll remain as you are."

"Pity." He lounged back, still wearing that damnable smirk. "Do, sit. If you wish, of course."

"Who is giving the orders?" she snapped. But she sat - in a chair, separated from him by a low table. He tried, failed, to smother a chuckle.

"Oh, I assure you, I am at your mercy, sweet." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "The question is - what will you do with me?" That warm, velvet voice trickled over her, wrapping her in its decadent insinuation. The invitation to order him into her bed, to command him to touch her, to please her, hovered in the air between them, unspoken. And she was...tempted.

Instead, she drew up her legs, draping her arms around them, curling in on herself. Easier, this way, to avoid temptation. "Why are you here, Balthier?"

"For you," he answered without hesitation. "We weren't finished, you and I." They would never be finished...but he suspected that would frighten her, send her into a panic. He could only be so honest with her without causing alarm.

She rested her chin atop her knees, regarding him with that clear, searching gaze. Judged and found wanting, because she could not bring herself to trust him. She had been so close, before Ashe had stolen her away and spoiled it. Perhaps a few more weeks, and he could have coaxed her into accepting him forever. But beyond his reach, she had had nothing but time to think, to doubt, to relive all the ways he'd wounded her with his callous disregard. To be wounded further each day he had not come for her, unaware of what errand had kept him.

A sigh, a pitiful little sound that wrenched at his heart, made him clench his fists against the desire to hold her, to comfort her. "You're like a child with a toy, Balthier," she said. "You don't _really_ want me. You only want what you can't have. And I don't want to be a toy or a diversion or...or a possession to be tossed aside when I've outlived my usefulness. So you must find someone else. There must be millions of women that would suit you better. Surely there are more beautiful women - find one of them."

" _You_ are beautiful," he said.

"I'm _really_ not, Balthier." She held out a hand, silencing him when he would have argued. "I'm passable enough, yes, but I'm quite certain I'm not a patch on any of your other conquests."

Despite himself, he smiled - she probably wasn't aware of the slight bitterness in her voice, the barest tinge of jealousy that seeped through which she could not quite conceal. And he shifted back, draping an arm over the back of the sofa. "Ask me," he said. "How many women in the past year? You want to know."

She colored furiously, vibrantly. "I don't!"

"You do," he countered. "You're seething with jealousy, sweet. So...ask me, and I'll tell you. Anything you wish to know, I shall tell you."

A moment of hesitation; she considered him, tightened her arms around her legs as though bracing herself for a blow. Finally, she whispered weakly, "How many...?"

"None." He watched the word sink in, her shoulders stiffen, her brows draw together in confusion, denial. "Not one, darling girl. There has been no one since you. You _ruined_ me."

She scrambled off the chair as if he'd posed a physical threat rather than a softly-spoken statement, lurching to a halt some fifteen feet from him, rapid breaths loud in the silence of the room. "I don't believe you," she whispered.

"You ought to," he said. "Rather humiliating thing to admit to, being brought so low." He eased off the sofa, slowly rising to his feet. "I confess, I had expected you to be pleased."

"Why?" she asked, in that sweet, breathless voice. "Why should I be pleased?" Still she stood, rooted to the floor even as he cautiously approached.

"Every woman wishes to know that she is unsurpassable, does she not?" he asked. He stopped mere inches away, valiantly resisting the impulse to touch her, to cup her face in his hands, to stroke his thumb over her full lower lip. "You'd best order me away, darling."

But she stared, such wide, wide eyes, brilliantly blue and framed by thick, dark lashes - eyes that seared away his sins, cleansed him, made him over anew. So expressive; she had once been so adept at hiding her thoughts, but he had unsettled her, ripped the veil away, and now he could see them, all the fears and doubts and desires that lingered there. All the tangled emotions; pleasure interwoven with pain until she could not separate them, could not fathom the one without the other following swiftly on its heels. Then her lashes shaded her eyes, and she whispered, "You'd go, then...if I told you to?"

"Yes." He'd retreat to the sitting area, wrestle his baser urges into submission, and let her pass the night in peace if it was her wish. Building trust, a block at a time. As long as it might take. "But do it now, darling."

And he waited. And waited, the silence fraught with tension. But still she said nothing; tacit permission. And still he gave her time to object as he leisurely stroked her cheek, cupped her chin in his hand, gathered her against him.

Even as he bent his head, brushed his lips over hers, she murmured, "I _still_ don't believe you."

Darling girl, determined to be contrary to the last. He drew her hand up, settling it over his chest. Over his heart. And he whispered in her ear, "You will."


	27. Chapter 27

The barred door had prevented any of the maids from creeping in to stoke a fire that might chase away the chill of the morning air. That was the thing about palaces; they were so drafty, the marble and stone holding in the cold. And yet, even without the heat of the fire, Penelo was not particularly cold. Probably because Balthier's chest was pressed against her back, the heat of his body like a furnace, suffusing her with his warmth. One of his arms was thrust beneath the pillows under her head, the other draped over her waist, keeping her held securely in the curve of his body. Her head was tucked beneath his chin, one of his legs caught between hers, entangled.

She didn't want to wake, because that would mean a return to reality she did not want to face. A reality she hadn't the courage to confront. And she was afraid he could wear her down. That he _would_ wear her down. That all of her convictions not to be such a weak-willed, simpering, idiotic sort of female would just collapse beneath the heat of his ardor...just as she had the night before. Stupid of her, really, but somehow she could not muster any regret. She supposed she had been waiting for it since his reappearance, had known that she would inevitably end up back in bed with him. Perhaps she had even wanted it - one last night, one last perfect memory to cherish in the lonely years ahead.

Beneath the pillow, his arm flexed. He stretched like a cat, all sinuous motion and rippling muscle, coming to wakefulness slowly. A purr of contentment rumbled in his chest; he swept her hair aside to nuzzle her throat. He pressed a kiss to the delicate skin behind her ear and murmured, "Darling girl, how I have missed you."

As she had missed him. Oh, how she had missed him - for all the good it would do her. No, she would not dwell. She shoved the thought to the back of her mind, eased away from him, clutching the sheet tightly to her.

He sensed her unease, was wise enough not to protest the distance she put between them. "Surely you must believe me now. There has been no one else."

And she...did. Memories intruded unbidden, warm hands on her face, her back, her hips, burning eyes on hers, holding her gaze as he whispered things like _no one else_ and _beyond compare_ to her. And other things that heated her cheeks in the cold light of day; how would she ever be able to look him in the eyes after that?

"Yes," she said finally, and his lips curved into a warm smile. "But you have to leave," she pressed on.

"Now, why would I want to do that?" Those devilish fingers had breached the neutral space between them, brushed her bare arm, smoothed up over her shoulder. She slapped ineffectually at his hand.

" _I_ want to visit my estate," she said. "And Ashe will never let me go without some assurance that you will not abduct me along the way. So I want your promise that you will not."

He considered that a moment, propped himself up on his elbow, resting his chin in his hand. "And you would believe me, were I to make such a promise?" he asked.

Probably she shouldn't, but she would. She must - she could not bear to be confined to the palace any longer. "Yes," she said. And she hoped he would not make her regret it.

And he smiled like he'd won something. "Darling girl, I do believe you may be beginning to trust me."

She wasn't. Surely she wasn't? She was not such a fool as that...she hoped. And so she said nothing, but that knowing look in his eyes unnerved her.

"Very well," he said, dropping a kiss onto her shoulder. "I give you my promise. No abductions."

She let out a sigh of relief and climbed out of bed, taking the sheet with her, hearing with reluctant amusement Balthier's sigh of disappointment.

"I'm going to speak with Ashe," she said. "You should probably stay hidden here until I've gone."

"Probably for the best," he agreed. "I'd ask if I may call upon you, but I'm certain I would not like the answer, so I shall not."

"Call upon me?" she inquired.

"Ask." He folded his arms behind his head, grinned at her.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation, grabbed up an outfit from her wardrobe, stalked to the bathroom where she intended to change, and snapped the door shut behind her.

\--

Ashe surveyed Penelo calmly over the rim of the porcelain tea cup. "I received word this morning that the Strahl has departed from Rabanastre," she said, watching for a reaction.

But Penelo's face was utterly placid, drawn in smooth, even lines, perfectly neutral. "Oh?" Just a touch of polite interest; Penelo truly had the makings of a diplomat. "I should like to visit my estate, then, if it's not objectionable to you."

Ashe hid a smile. "I'm not certain that's wise just yet. It could be a ploy to defray suspicion."

"It's not," Penelo protested immediately. "He promised -" Her face flooded with color upon realizing what she had revealed; she closed her mouth and subsided into tense silence.

"A simple lesson," Ashe said lightly. "Never let yourself be manipulated into divulging more than you wish. You'll find that silence is often your most powerful asset." She served up a flaky scone on a small plate and offered it to Penelo. "So, I presume that he has successfully breached palace security, then?"

Useless, now, to pretend that he had not. Penelo gave a short nod.

"Well, seeing as there have been no attempts at abduction - as far as I am aware - I suppose it might be safe enough to travel. I shall, of course, escort you, just in case." Ashe thought a moment. "What did he promise you, then?"

Penelo mumbled, "No further abduction attempts."

"And you believe him?" Ashe inquired.

"I...yes." Penelo's brows drew together as she refilled their cups. "I think I do." A flutter of self-deprecating laughter. "Is that utterly foolish, do you think?"

"Time will tell, dear." Ashe accepted the fresh tea Penelo offered. "Time will tell."

\--

The flight from Rabanastre to Penelo's estate in the Esterlands - once called the Estersands, but renamed as the area had slowly revitalized from its previous harsh and primitive climes - was mercifully brief, a touch shorter than two hours. Sheltered in the lee of a mountain range on the border, it had been an oasis in the otherwise arid region even before the climate had shifted into temperance. Far from the royal city, it was a haven of peaceful hills and valleys, orchards and vineyards, tall green grasses that had ripened to wheat as autumn advanced. Wind rippled through the stalks, lending the appearance of rolling golden waves. The land stretched out into the distance, tenant farms and homesteads dotting the hills that spread down and away from the stately manor house.

Penelo loved it on sight - no walls, no fences, nothing but open air and sky and steady ground beneath her feet. A place she could breathe - truly breathe - at last.

"There were many to choose from," Ashe said from behind her. "Really, you've no idea - so many abandoned estates. But this one, I thought, would be perfect for you."

"It is," Penelo breathed reverently. "It _is_ perfect." A home. A place to return to; a place that no one could take from her. A slice of land she could walk, explore, and shape.

Droves of servants carried luggage from the airship towards the manor house - apparently queens required a veritable mountain of things when they traveled. Penelo had packed relatively little, but now she regretted it.

"Ashe," she said. "I don't believe I will be returning with you to Rabanastre when you go. Now that I'm here, I think I would like to stay."

"I had expected as much," Ashe replied dryly. "I imagine you'll be rather busy in the coming days. I should like to stay a while, of course, to see you settled. But you needn't dance attendance on me; I can manage on my own."

The doors of the manor house burst open, and a dark-haired young man scurried down the steps towards the airship, a stack of papers clenched in his hand.

"That would be your steward, I imagine," Ashe said. "You'll have much to discuss."

"Yes, I suppose we will." Penelo took a deep breath of the clean, pure air and smiled.

\--

True to her word, Ashe had stayed out of Penelo's affairs, allowing Penelo the freedom to make her own discoveries. Days passed in drawn-out discussions over the merits of growing apples over peaches, what grains were to be planted in the next seasons, what livestock would best suit the fields.

In the mornings, Penelo had made it her habit to rise early and take stock of her estate, brisk walks through the orchards and through the village. Midday was reserved for lengthy conversations with her steward - an able young man who had seen through her requests in her absence - over what improvements might be planned and which tenants had need of assistance. Evenings were spent talking over her various decisions with Ashe for additional advice or otherwise in reflective silence, mulling over her progress since her arrival.

And she _had_ made progress; her steward was capable, he provided sound advice and deferred to her wishes. He had displayed no small measure of relief at her eagerness to involve herself, pleased that she took so much interest in her holdings with the intention of improving not just herself but all those dependent upon her. Together they had gone visiting tenants and had made a long list of notes as to what might be done to relieve the burdens of the common people. The tenants, in response, had been overwhelmingly delighted with their new mistress, not in spite of her common roots, but because of them. She listened to their concerns and addressed them as equals; she would not be one of the lofty ones that came down from her secluded home only to secure the rents, but instead took interest in their lives, spoke with them, laughed with them, cuddled their babies and played exuberantly with their older children.

She dressed simply, she spoke plainly, and she made generous offers of aid to those in need. And her steward dutifully made his marks, tallied up expenditures, and delivered on the promised goods. Penelo thought they worked rather well together - she had learned him well enough through letters and conversation that she could trust him to carry out her wishes in her absence. And she did expect to go traveling soon - as much as she loved this land, so too did she love the sky. As soon as she might acquire her own airship, she intended to further her travels.

Nearly two weeks had elapsed, and Ashe was preparing to leave soon for Rabanastre. And though she would miss Ashe's sound advice, she would _not_ miss the guards clomping around her home in their heavy armor. Though she had been relieved of her own personal escorts, she found just the clinking of their armor enough to set her teeth on edge. That alone would be reason enough to spend much of her time out of doors, had she not already been so inclined.

And she was; with no guards at her heels she was free to wend her way through the orchard in solitude as she did now, unbothered by constant chatter behind her, servants milling about, or polite inquiries as to where she'd care to take tea to scatter her thoughts. Instead she weaved among the trees, picked a worthy-looking specimen, and hauled herself into its low-slung branches, hanging her legs over the bough. The harvest was only just beginning, most of the trees still laden with fruit. Hanging above her head an apple hovered dangling from a branch; she grabbed it up and twisted it at the stem and it fell into her hand, ripe and firm.

With no one to rebuke her manners - or lack thereof - she shined the fruit on the silk of her top, and bit into it; its crisp flavor burst upon her tongue, tart and sweet. She chewed thoughtfully; a few rows over the orchard ended, trees giving way to pastures fit for grazing livestock, but as yet there were none. She considered the empty fields - she knew what sorts of prices fruits and vegetables might fetch at market, what should be planted and when, but she knew nothing about animals, about what it required to raise them or which would be the most useful to her estate, to the tenants that worked it.

"Sheep, I think."

She jerked, choked on a bit of apple, would have pitched backward off the branch were it not for a warm hand at her back steadying her. Incredulously, she looked over her shoulder.

"You've developed a nasty habit of sneaking up on me," she said sulkily, even as Balthier grinned at her.

" _You've_ developed a nasty habit of letting down your guard," he countered. He nodded his head to indicate the pastures she'd been considering. "Sheep for those. Easy to raise, and you can get a good price for the wool as well as the mutton."

"Sheep," she repeated inanely. Shaking off the shock, she asked, "What are you _doing_ here?"

"Calling upon you." He ducked beneath the branch beneath her, laid one palm upon her knee, snatched the apple from her hand and bit into it.

"You said you wouldn't."

"I said I wouldn't _ask_ ," he corrected. "Don't tell me you are displeased to see me; I shall be crushed."

"Usually," she said, "when one calls upon someone, one leaves their card with the butler and waits for admittance. I do remember that from all of those lady lessons Ashe pressed upon me."

"As her majesty is still in residence, I declined to take my chances." He held the apple away when she grabbed for it. "You can hardly blame me. And after all, I _did_ keep my promise, did I not?"

"Much to my surprise," she muttered, making another unsuccessful grab for the apple. "Oh, come now. There's an orchard full of apples; must you steal _mine_?"

"I _am_ a thief, darling girl. Fruit is so much the sweeter when it belongs to someone else." That disarming grin; she didn't know what he wanted from her. So he had kept his promise and left her to enjoy her new found freedom; that didn't explain why he had come now. Or... _how_ he had come. How had he found her? Rather than bicker with him over the loss of her apple, she reached up and snagged a new one - only his hand cupped her waist, ostensibly to steady her, but the light pressure of his fingers was too teasing, too provocative. And something flared in his eyes, a hot, slow burn that made her shiver under its onslaught.

Instead she directed her attention to examining the fresh fruit. "How did you know to come here? Ashe said there were many estates left vacant, and I don't recall telling you which one Ashe had given to me."

"Ahh, but you _did_ helpfully leave a handful of correspondence in your bedside drawer back in the palace."

"You read my letters?" Outrage, hot and immediate. She resisted the impulse to lob her apple at his thick head.

" _Do_ recall my vocation, darling girl; I'd hardly be proficient at it were I to allow such ready information to slip away from me." He snickered at the baleful glance she slanted him. He rested his arms on either side of her legs, leaned in. "Have you missed me?"

"No!" she huffed indignantly.

"Shall I go, then?" A hint of amusement lingered in the corners of his mouth, as though he knew she spoke only in a fit of pique.

Her eyes slid away; she folded her arms over her chest and sniffed disdainfully. "I don't care."

"Pity," he drew away, the heat of his body fading beneath the chill of the air. "I'd brought you a gift, but I suppose it shall have to wait until you are of a more amiable temperament."

As he shoved away from the tree and turned to leave, she followed, gracefully alighting on the ground. Mingled suspicion and interest colored her tone as she inquired, "What sort of a gift?"

"So sorry," he called over his shoulder, his long-legged strides quickly putting distance between them. "They're for the girl who might've missed me while we were separated." But he smiled as he heard her quickening footsteps behind him, the grass rustling beneath her feet as she dashed towards him. "When _she_ comes round, _then_ -"

But the words were knocked away, and so was he as she tackled him, sending them both flying off their feet and tumbling across the grass, coming at last to rest at the base of a tree. She puffed her hair out of her face, pushing herself into a seated position in the grass beside him.

"I _might_ have missed you," she said. "Just a little bit."

"Oh?" he wheezed, struggling to regain his breath as she'd knocked it clear from his lungs.

She demonstrated, holding her thumb and forefinger a quarter inch apart. "Perhaps this much," she said, with an impish grin.

"Cheeky wench." He closed his eyes for a moment, choked back helpless laughter. Then he forced himself upright, cupped his hand around the back of her neck and hauled her close for a kiss.

But she was not so easily pacified. "You really shouldn't have read my letters," she insisted. "I've grown accustomed to privacy, and I'll have you respect it in the future."

"How else was I to discover where you were? Should I have gone and had a chat with her majesty, then? I can well imagine how that might've gone over," he chided. But she fixed him with that resolute look, and she had spoken of the future, as though they might possibly have one, and so he heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes and said, "Very well, then, I shall not pry into your possessions unless it is a matter of utmost importance."

And she bestowed upon him a lovely smile and a sweet kiss and he realized she trusted him to keep his word. But calling attention to it might make her withdraw; better to let her realize it on her own and make of it what she would. Instead he helped her to her feet and watched as she brushed grass and dirt from her rumpled clothing. Her knees had borne the brunt of the impact; the silk pants she wore would likely forever afterwards bear the grass stains.

"Now." She planted her hands on her hips and tilted her head to the side, and he was momentarily transfixed by the silky blond hair that spilled over her shoulder. "I was under the impression that you had brought something for me?" She took his arm and began leading him toward the manor.

He covered his mouth with his hand, smothering a chuckle. "Oh, all right, then. I suppose you've earned it. You've a conservatory in that manor house of yours, haven't you?"

"Yes, but it's empty at the moment. It had orange trees at one point, or so I'm told. But they died with no one to care for them, so they had to be removed." She cast him a curious look, then shrugged. "I haven't gotten around to replacing them yet."

"I think I can rectify that, as it happens," he said. Before long they reached the edge of the orchard, the perfectly maintained lawn before them stretching up to the front steps of the manor. "Send a few servants out, if you would, darling, and I'll meet you there shortly." And he gave her a small push, watching as she dutifully sauntered off into the grand house.

\--

The gardeners were the first to arrive; five men armed to the teeth with shovels and trowels invaded the conservatory as though they were headed to war, striding resolutely over the barren rows and attacking the dirt determinedly, tilling it into soft earth and neatly dug holes.

Then the servants began to pour in, carrying with them young trees whose roots had been wrapped protectively in burlap, which they handed over one at a time to the gardeners, who carefully unwrapped them, set them in the freshly-dug earth, and packed it loosely over the roots. And they kept coming - a steady stream of servants who stayed only long enough to pass over a tree and then immediately leave again to retrieve another one.

Before long, the conservatory was half-filled with them, and Penelo stopped to marvel.

"Oh, my," she murmured. "There must be fifty of them." They were like no tree she'd ever seen, with huge, flat leaves, waxy to the touch, but such a brilliant green. A few seemed on the verge of flowering, the shiny pink petals still furled tightly in bud.

"Sixty-two," Balthier corrected as he entered the conservatory at last, following up the last tree. "It's all I could find on such short notice. The Rozarrians were fairly reluctant to part with them. Cost a bloody fortune, in fact."

"Rozarrians? You went to Rozarria for these?" She stroked the leaves, intrigued by the strange, exotic plant.

"Of course. They prefer more tropical climates; they're impossible to find here, hence the need for a conservatory. In fact, I imagine that you'll be the sole cultivator of them in all of Dalmasca." His fingers slid lightly through her hair. "I thought you might've been disappointed, after that nasty bit of business in Rozarria, to have been forced to leave them behind to be trampled on the ground."

For a moment she stared, bewildered. Then, as comprehension struck, she whirled with wide eyes, mouth agape. "Heartfruit? They're _heartfruit_ trees?" She laughed delightedly, threw her arms around his neck, nearly bowling him over for the second time that day. "You brought me heartfruit trees!"

Her lips landed somewhere in the vicinity of his mouth, and her joy was infectious - after a brief moment of surprise at her unrestrained elation, his arms closed around her and he reveled in her happiness. To have been responsible for that overwhelming surge of emotion, to have brought that jubilant smile to her face, to have earned a small slice of her favor humbled him, made an answering warmth bloom in his chest. And he thought he could easily spend the rest of his life like this, searching out ways to make her happy, trying to capture a bit of her glow to hold in his heart like a candle forever.

"Consider them a homecoming gift," he told her, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. She had blossomed here, he realized. Free of the restrictive confines of the palace, she had flourished, reclaimed her smothered spirit. She could laugh again, freely, and without bitterness. She might even wish to stay, might have abandoned her dream of traveling for the permanency and promise of a true home her estate could provide. She could never have thrived like this had he kept her with him aboard the Strahl; she needed the freedom to make her own choices, to discover her own path. She might've been content, he thought, but she could never have been happy being kept at his will. He could well have ended up suffocating her down into nothing but embers, a mere memory of the blazing fire she had once possessed. She needed to _choose_ him, to come with him of her own accord.

And he...had nothing that she required. Except for the fragile seed of trust he'd have to hope had taken root, he had nothing to recommend him, and a mountain of misdeeds yet to atone for. But, as he watched her flutter excitedly through the conservatory he thought that, just maybe, he'd made the path just the tiniest bit easier.


	28. Chapter 28

Of course it was inevitable, being in such close quarters, that he would eventually have a run-in with the queen. He simply hadn't expected it to be quite so soon. But she had been lured by all the commotion in the conservatory, and had appeared promptly, a cadre of armed guards flanking her in the doorway. No escape. Penelo's joy slipped away into restrained silence; Balthier's amusement died a similarly swift death, his face setting to stony impassivity.

Ashe's expression was bland; she was not surprised to see him. "You." She motioned imperiously to Balthier. "With me. Now."

He bristled at the command. "And if I refuse?"

"Your compliance is not necessary. You may come under your own power or be compelled to do so. It makes no difference to me." She made a tiny gesture and the guards moved forward in unison.

"Ashe, wait." Penelo darted in front of him, holding out her hands in a placating gesture. "Please, can't we just -"

"Penelo. This is not negotiable. Step aside." Though Ashe did not speak sharply, the authoritative note in her voice made Penelo's spine go rigid, her brows raise skyward, her hands drop to her sides to clench into fists. The climbing color in her cheeks bespoke a brewing storm, and Balthier could almost feel sorry for the queen - Penelo, in a temper, was a force to be reckoned with. But then, it would hardly behoove them to begin this war anew.

But this was between Ashe and himself, and it would not do to embroil Penelo in such a battle. He squeezed her shoulder gently. "Don't interfere, darling girl. I'll take care of this."

She drew in an infuriated breath, gasped, "No! This is _my_ home; I won't have my guests ordered about!"

"This is long overdue," he said. "I took the risk in coming; I'll shoulder the consequences." He dropped a careless kiss on the top of her head, strode around her to approach the queen. "Shall we, then?"

Ashe's eyes narrowed on him. "See that he follows," she said to her guards, and turned on her heel, retreating down the hallway. Balthier rolled his eyes as the guards surrounded him, pressing him on after the queen.

And something thwacked him in the back of the head. He stopped, rubbed the wounded area, muttering, "Damn, what...?"

A guard coughed, masking what sounded suspiciously like a snicker; a small, soft leather boot rested on the marble floor near his feet. He glanced over his shoulder, struck dumb at Penelo's furious expression. The little witch had lobbed a shoe at his head!

But Penelo merely jerked her chin up stubbornly. "You can both go to the devil!" she snapped, and slammed the doors of the conservatory so hard the glass panes rattled.

\--

Balthier had expected to be shoved into an imposing office, forced into a chair, perhaps even bound and interrogated mercilessly. Thus he found himself somewhat surprised when Ashe lead him into a sunny parlor room, directed him to a plush sofa, took a seat in a chair opposite him, and called for tea.

"That could have been handled better," he said, as it became clear he was as yet in no danger of being tossed into a dungeon. "You've deplorable timing." All that vibrant joy extinguished at the whim of the overbearing queen. And now Penelo was furious with both of them; Ashe for her cavalier demands, Balthier for giving in to them.

"I have found it wise in the past never to underestimate you," Ashe retorted. "Therefore compelling your obedience was a necessary evil."

"You might have asked," he sighed.

She shrugged. "You might have refused."

A maidservant entered, bearing an elegant china tea service on a silver tray. She prepared two cups, offered them up to Ashe first, then Balthier, and exited the room silently. Ashe stirred her tea, studying Balthier's neutral expression.

"If I were going to have you arrested," she said finally, "I would have done it weeks ago. Contrary to what you may believe, security at the palace is quite excellent. Had it been my wish, you would never have made it within the walls."

Balthier had suspected as much, but hadn't been willing to test the theory on the off chance that he was mistaken. It had simply been too easy to move about the palace for him to believe it wasn't by some design. "What is this about, then? If you did not object to my presence at the palace, why now?"

She fixed him with a clear, searching gaze. "At the palace, your presence was under strict control. You could move about, but had you attempted to steal Penelo away, you would have very quickly found yourself apprehended. Here, you are something of a variable - my influence is limited, my power less than absolute. I would know your intentions before I leave Penelo in your hands."

He snorted, affronted on Penelo's behalf. "She's not yours to give. She's not a pawn to be given; she's capable of choosing for herself."

Ashe's stern expression melted into one of relief; she curled her hands around the delicate teacup, smiling fondly. "Balthier," she said softly, approvingly, "I do believe you've given me my answer."

His brows drew together, utterly baffled by the change that had come over her.

She continued, "I was married once, you know. And you have always looked at Penelo like my husband once looked at me. Even a year ago I saw it in you. But you didn't see it in yourself; you couldn't accept it, and instead you left her to suffer and grieve. How could I let her weather that pain again? She deserved to be protected. She deserved to be sure of you."

Ahh, understanding at last: Ashe had not intended to separate them, merely she had hoped to save Penelo further pain had he proved himself the same selfish, self-serving man he had been a year ago. He relaxed infinitesimally. She would protect Penelo even from him, had it come to it.

"She will be sure, eventually," he said. "This time I shall see to it that her trust is not misplaced."

"I believe you," she said. "You've changed. Perhaps not altogether...but enough, I think." She set aside her empty cup. "I'll be returning to Rabanastre soon, and Penelo has expressed the desire to remain here. I trust I can depend upon you to inform me of any changes?"

He nodded his assent. "I suppose I owe it to you. You took care of her in my absence."

"I promised you that I would, and I kept my word," she said. "See that Penelo can trust you to do the same."

\--

If they had expected Penelo's fit of pique to have abated in their absence, they were doomed to disappointment. After they had ascertained that she had left the conservatory in a snit, the steward had approached, Penelo's lone discarded boot tucked under his arm, wringing his hands, to inform them that she had stalked away in a fine temper, and he did not know where she had gone.

"Surely," Ashe said hesitantly, "she must still be here?" But her voice wavered - Penelo had fled from both of them before; she was not one to sit idly by and allow others to determine her fate. They had both erred grievously with her, showing her such marked disrespect. Although she could not have understood the nature of it, she _would_ understand that once again she had been treated like a child, as if her wishes were of no import to them.

"She might have run," he acknowledged dully. Any progress he had made with her might've been erased in one careless moment. His battle with Ashe had been resolved, but perhaps at a cost too great.

Ashe's eyes widened in horror; she turned to face the steward and spoke firmly, "Search the grounds. Everywhere. Inform all of the servants immediately."

The manor was thrown into chaos in moments as swarms of servants roamed the halls searching for their lost mistress. Balthier beckoned to Ashe, directing her to follow him outside.

"If she's here," he said. "She won't be found inside the house. She prefers the outdoors." He'd found her twice before, and neither time had she been safely ensconced indoors. "It's hardly been half an hour. She couldn't have gone far."

Ashe trailed after him, bemused. "Where are we going?"

"To find her, if we're lucky." He vaulted down the front steps, crossed the verdant green lawn in quick strides, and paused at the edge of the orchard - there, at the base of an apple tree, lay a small leather boot, the match to the one Penelo had thrown at his head earlier.

"She's here," he said. "She's here, somewhere." He sighed in relief - she hadn't fled, not this time.

They found her shortly thereafter, wandering aimlessly through the orchard, her bare feet sliding silently through the grass. She paused briefly, her attention momentarily garnered as she heard them approach, but she quickly turned her face away and continued on.

Beside him, Ashe drew in a sharp breath at the cut. He cast her a quelling glance; her wounded pride was not currently a concern. Balthier caught up to Penelo, Ashe on his heels, and they fell into step beside her, but she steadfastly refused to acknowledge them.

Long, silent moments passed. Eventually, Balthier ventured a comment. "We thought you might've run."

A tense hush, and then finally she deigned to speak. "I considered it," she said. "But then, what would be the point? Between the both of you, I'd just get dragged right back again."

He winced at the resentment in her voice; all they had succeeded in doing was to dredge up bitter memories of her less than fair treatment at their hands, wrenching her all-too-recently acquired autonomy from her hands once again.

"I would have followed you," he acknowledged carefully. "But not to force you to return anywhere you did not wish to go."

Instead of pursuing his statement, she said, "Do you know what it's like to be treated like a child? To have people in closed-door meetings behind your back, discussing what's to be done with you? To make your decisions without your consent? Because that's all you've done with me."

"Penelo, it wasn't -" Ashe began, but Balthier shook his head firmly and she lapsed into silence. She didn't need an explanation; she needed an apology.

"Everyone is so concerned with what they think is best for me. But no one's bothered to consider what I want. No one asks. No one cares." Penelo trailed her fingers along the trunk of a tree, sighing. "I think I could have been happy here. But if my wishes are disregarded in my own home, then it's just another sort of prison, isn't it?"

"I was wrong," Ashe said quietly. Penelo turned her head in surprise, hardly having expected to hear such a thing from her. Ashe flushed beneath the pointed gaze, a rare display of discomfiture from her. "It was wrong of me," she said. "I should not have presumed to give orders in your home." She twisted her fingers, appearing duly chastened. "I've meddled more than I ought to have done, but I do promise that it will not happen again."

Penelo considered that a moment, then nodded once, sharply, to indicate her acceptance of Ashe's admission. "You don't get to be queen here, Ashe. You are a guest - and that privilege will be revoked if you overstep again. I've tolerated it too long already."

That quiet rebuke carried more weight than a furious tirade would have; Ashe accepted it with good grace, understanding it for both the pardon and warning it was.

Balthier cleared his throat. "I suppose I have a few apologies to make as well," he ventured.

Penelo rounded on him. "You _suppose_?" she inquired icily.

Ashe's eyes rounded at the rancor in Penelo's tone, and she took a step backwards. "I'll...leave you to, ah, converse. I shouldn't want to intrude." And she beat a hasty retreat, all too eager to leave Balthier to fend for himself in the face of Penelo's ire.

Balthier sighed, braced himself against a tree trunk. "You threw a shoe at my head," he accused gently.

" _You_ were a condescending bastard," she snapped back. "You're every bit as bad as she is! Worse, even!"

Because he was supposed to be her supporter, not her captor, not her guardian. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and said, "You're right."

The simple statement drew her up short. She eyed him suspiciously, warily, as though she suspected his easy acknowledgment to be a trick of some sort, a ploy to soften her anger. "Oh?" she asked. "Please, do continue."

"You're right," he said again. "I was a condescending bastard. I've made so many mistakes already with you, and I shall probably make many more along the way. But I _am_ learning from them, darling, and I shall endeavor not to make the same mistakes in the future." He eased away from the tree, taking a hesitant step towards her, gratified when she did not withdraw. "I apologize," he said, "for making you feel inferior, for my presumption, for not respecting your wishes. It was not well done of me."

"No. It wasn't." Penelo mulled over his apology for a few moments, and finally asked, "If I asked you to leave, would you?"

A muscle in his jaw ticked. But he said, "Yes. Although I hope you will not." And he waited, tense, for her response.

For a moment she said nothing, merely considered him as if trying to determine whether or not he had spoken the truth. And he wondered what she saw in his face, whether she might see any worthiness in him. But her own expression was guarded, closed. All of the ground he had gained with his earlier gift had been lost in one fell swoop.

Finally her lips pursed, and she swallowed hard and said, "I want you to leave, Balthier."

Somehow, he had not truly expected the deathblow to fall, had expected her, in her infinite mercy, to forgive him his lapses. And already his mind whirled with possible ways he might manage to finagle his way back into her good graces. Letters, gifts, court events at which they might meet once again - but he needed her to trust him, to be able to take him at his word. And so he would have to leave, and hope that she might, at some point in the future, become receptive to his overtures once again.

He couldn't have managed a bow to save his life, but he indicated his understanding with a brief nod, began to walk away on legs that felt leaden. She let him get perhaps twenty feet before she called his name. He stopped, turned, expression wary.

"I'm banishing you from the entirety of my estate," she said. "I don't wish to see you. Not in the manor, not in the orchard, not in the gardens, not in the fields, not in the village, not _anywhere_. Is that understood?"

"As you wish," he managed to say, and made to leave once again.

"For one week."

He jerked to a halt, whirled around. Stared incredulously. Struggled in vain to suppress his relief. Scrubbed his hand over his mouth in a futile attempt to quell the grin that had surfaced. And then he was striding back to her.

"One week," she said again as he approached. "And then, if you like, you can -" But he had swept her into his arms, gathering her against his chest, pressing a searing kiss to her lips. Any protest she might've made was vanquished beneath the heat of his mouth on hers, but she allowed it for a few moments before she drew back slowly and settled her cheek against his chest.

"You really _would_ have left, wouldn't you," she said wonderingly as he stroked her hair. "Just because I asked."

"Yes," he said. "Although I am a bit wounded that her majesty escaped with a lesser punishment."

"She's already preparing to leave; it wouldn't have accomplished anything. Most of her things are already packed; she's unlikely to be here longer than a few more hours," she explained. She pushed away, gently extricating herself from his arms. "You still have to go. Just for a week." She worried her lower lip. "I had to be sure. Can you understand?" she asked hesitantly.

"Darling girl," he sighed. "While your methods were somewhat disheartening," - _terrifying_ \- "I can understand the need for them. I hope, in the future, you will be able to take me at my word alone." She wanted so badly to trust him, had, even in her anger, provided him an opportunity to prove himself. She was going to forgive him; he knew it viscerally. Despite all of his missteps, she was going to forgive him. And in a week's time, when he returned to her, he suspected a good portion of her misgivings would have abated. Perhaps there would still be challenges ahead, but none of them would come down to a lack of faith.

She nodded, a wisp of a smile lingering at the corners of her mouth. And he thought that perhaps they understood each other just a bit better than they had only moments before.

"In a week, then," he said. And this time his gait was slow, unhurried, confident as he walked away.

\--

When Penelo at last reached the manor, the panicked servants had already been reassured that their missing mistress had been located and their efforts redirected into assisting Ashe in the preparations for her departure, and so she was none the wiser as to the upheaval her disappearance had caused.

She found Ashe at the forefront of the activity, like a commanding officer directing her troops, waging war against the trunks and furniture and various other things she'd brought with her. When Penelo approached - without Balthier - Ashe's eyebrows rose dramatically. She murmured her instructions to one of the servants, and then stepped away from the fray to reconvene with Penelo some distance away, where they could talk in relative peace.

"Have you...quarreled?" she inquired uncertainly.

Penelo's shoulders rose in a shrug. "A bit," she said slowly. "I told him to leave, Ashe," she said after a short silence. Ashe's sharp, indrawn breath surprised her - she knew Ashe had never been particularly fond of Balthier, and the expression of dismayed shock on her face was certainly unexpected.

"Just for a week," Penelo clarified. "But I didn't initially qualify it, and he would have done it. What do you suppose that means?"

Cautiously, Ashe ventured: "Did he argue? Attempt to change your mind?"

Penelo shook her head. "No. I think he wanted to, but...no. He would have left simply because I asked him to."

Ashe summoned a reassuring smile. "I know I have mismanaged things, but I think perhaps you ought to know what passed between us this morning. When you were safe at the palace, his hands were tied - he could not have stolen you away even had he tried. It took a clever bit of work to manage it, I assure you, to ensure that he might be able to enter easily enough but not to leave with you."

Penelo's brows knitted in confusion. "But _Vaan_ helped him -"

"Vaan came to me. Dear, really, there is very little that goes on in the palace that I do _not_ know about - and I would not be so foolish as to leave the Garamsythe Waterway entrance unprotected. It was a carefully orchestrated undertaking. But I think it worked out rather well." Ashe sighed. "You needed security, and he needed - well, he needed a firm _no_ for the first time in his life, a situation he could not manipulate to his benefit. A learning experience, in which he would have to put someone else's wishes above his own. And it was a learning experience for you, as well, I think."

It really had been, Penelo realized - she had learned much about herself and about him, because simple conversation with one another had, by necessity, become their primary mode of interaction. She had learned that he could use a touch of humility, that she didn't have to tolerate his highhanded behavior, that she could gleefully walk away from him if he displeased her. For once, all of the power had been hers, and she had enjoyed it to the fullest extent. And she thought maybe he had, too, in a way - for a change he had been forced to work for something he wanted, and he relished the challenge. He had settled down into the role, ceased straining at the bonds placed upon him, and actually listened to her, learned that some things had to be given freely.

"And so we come to today. Of course, you will be a sight more vulnerable beyond the protection of the palace. I merely wished to discover what he might do, whether he would revert to former bad habits now that you are free of the palace. It's one thing to pretend a change that has not occurred, and quite another to have actually changed - for your own peace of mind, you deserved the latter. And so I told him that I would require assurance before I would leave you in his hands." At Penelo's incensed gasp, she made a gesture of placation, "Please, dear, I said it only to gauge his response. But you would be pleased, I think: he said that you were not a pawn to be given. That's what you wanted, isn't it? To be a person, not a possession." She offered a smile. "So you see, I think he _has_ learned something after all."

"Oh." Somewhat shaken, Penelo found herself pressing her hand to her heart like some sort of woebegone damsel. "You _have_ been rather thorough, haven't you?"

"Perhaps a bit overzealous, I admit," Ashe said wryly. "Please understand; you gave me your loyalty when I had need of it, and you've earned mine in return. Of course I would wish to protect you from further pain if it was within my power to do so. I owe you a debt I can never repay."

Penelo sighed. "You have gone to great lengths already. And I do appreciate both your efforts and the outcome - but I would appreciate it more if you were to give up running interference. Some things I must do for myself."

Ashe's lips twitched. "Agreed. For what it might be worth, I _do_ believe he has changed, at least enough to, ah... _approach_ worthiness. And I do not give my favor lightly."

"Your counsel will be taken under advisement," Penelo replied primly, earning a brief spurt of laughter from Ashe. She stuck out her hand, grasped Ashe's in hers. "Let's part as friends, then. I will write to you, of course. And I may attend the occasional court function, if it is necessary."

"Dear, you needn't make any court appearances if you don't wish to do so, but your company would be very welcome indeed. I _should_ like to see you from time to time." She clasped Penelo's shoulder warmly, and said, "Be well, and be happy." She turned to go, but tossed brightly over her shoulder, "And should it come to it, do let me throw you a grand wedding."

A wedding? Penelo gaped after her wordlessly. A _wedding_? In all the time she had spent with Balthier - and without him - she had never, not once, considered such a thing. It was the stuff of fantasies, and she had preferred not to build dreams on a man who would never have fulfilled them. Rather, she had existed only in the moment, knowing full well that each moment might be the last, and she would have to content herself with no more. He had made her no promises, and she never would have believed him even if he had. At least...not before today.

But Ashe was convinced he had changed. And he had made an honest effort to demonstrate as much to her, to foster trust regardless of the cost to himself. She had spent so long defending herself against his nefarious scheming, she hadn't really stopped to consider whether or not he might actually have had honorable intentions instead.

He had said he would return in a week. She only hoped he would bring with him answers to all the questions that consumed her.


	29. Chapter 29

By careful planning, Balthier predicted he would arrive back at Penelo's estate precisely one week and sixteen minutes after she'd thrown him off of it. Time hadn't exactly flown by, per se, but it hadn't been quite as miserable as he might have expected. Of course, he'd not spent it idly; he was better served in action and planning rather than sitting morosely in a bar drinking away his troubles. This was a battle he was determined to win, after all, and he was a master strategist.

Penelo would never stand a chance. Oh, she might give it a good attempt, but he would wear her down eventually, and he could even look forward to the challenge. The reward would be well worth the effort, and he fully intended to wage war until she surrendered.

And that blasted ring was burning a hole in his pocket. A half dozen times when she'd been ensconced in the palace he'd almost presented it to her, but he'd suspected she would have refused, until suddenly he'd realized that didn't want to win her that way, even if she might have accepted. He didn't want to use it as a tactic to sway her to his suit. He simply wanted to give it to her, a symbol of a promise. One she could believe that he would keep forever.

He only wondered what he would find upon his return - would she have once again marshaled her defenses, or would she have ceded to him a bit of her trust and welcome him?

\--

"Penelo's it! Penelo's it!"

"Hurry, hurry, everyone hide!"

"Shhh! You want her to catch you?"

The gleeful cries of the village children echoed around her as they scurried off in different directions, each hoping to outwit her in their game. Of course, the blindfold tied around her face would hinder her ability to find them - but they were loud and rambunctious children, and she could use their snickers against them. She'd taken down more capable foes before - how much of a challenge could a group of children present, really?

The toe of her boot snagged in a clump of grass, causing her to trip, much to the amusement of the children - but she righted herself in time to avoid a nasty fall. A titter of laughter off to her left; she pivoted and forged ahead. A chorus of shrieks arose, and then there was the stampede of a herd of small feet across the grass as her prey raced away. Arms outstretched, she pursued them, knowing that in a few moments, some of the older children would grow more daring, drawing nearer and nearer.

There! A tug on the leg of her pants; she swiped a hand out, but came away with nothing but empty air.

"I know that was you, Silvie!" she called, eliciting a giggle from one of the girls.

"Maybe it was! But you still haven't caught me!" the girl shouted back.

A tap on her shoulder - she spun, and again caught nothing, and the rustle of the grass told her that the culprit had made a clean getaway. Perhaps she was getting slow...

A hush descended, usually a sign that one of the children was about to get particularly daring. She tensed, waiting for her opportunity to strike, relying upon her other senses to tell her where her target would be.

A break in the wind - she reached out, snagged not a shoulder, but an arm. Not a child, then; none of the children were more than four feet tall. One of the parents, in all likelihood - they frequently stood by to observe the games.

"Oh," she said. "I'm so sorry. I'm afraid I can't really tell where I'm headed." She touched the blindfold. "If you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of the children...?"

"That's cheating!" one of the children - Nial, she thought - shouted, but was quickly shushed into silence by the others.

"It's not cheating," she countered. "It's making use of available resources!"

A snicker from behind her, a pair of warm hands gripped her shoulders, turning her about. And a warm voice whispered at her ear, "Straight ahead, twenty paces. Six children - five of them will go right, but I think the one that accused you of cheating will go left. When you hear them begin to move, feint right, and then dive about thirty degrees left. You'll catch him."

At once she felt almost giddy, a fierce rush of excitement welled within her, and she smiled with helpless delight. "You're early," she said.

"I beg your pardon," came the reply, but he was smiling, too, she could hear it in his voice. "It's been one week and twenty-seven minutes. If anything, I'm late." And he gave her shove toward the cluster of children.

She counted her steps carefully, listening with each one, until finally she heard a flurry of movement. She feinted, then dived in the opposite direction, stretched out her arm, and caught a fistful of clothing. "Aha!" She crowed triumphantly. "I've got you, Nial!" The boy pouted as she fumbled to untie the blindfold and handed it over to him.

"Nial's it!" the cry went up among the children, who dutifully scattered.

"I'm bowing out for today, everyone! I'll see you again soon!" Penelo called as she headed back to rejoin Balthier, who was waiting for her on the sidelines, near a cluster of parents who had gathered to watch their children frolic.

"Well done," he said. "He looks like a handful, that one."

"First time he's been caught," she said. "I'll be the envy of all the children for it. How did you know what he would do?"

"He reminds me of myself. I would've done the same thing in his position, I think - let the larger group be the distraction, low-hanging fruit and all that." He offered her his arm. "Shall we?"

She cleared her throat, trying for a slightly more refined air as she bid the group of parents good day - likely a futile endeavor, as they'd been watching her make an utter idiot of herself entertaining their children for the better part of an hour. Then she placed her hand on the crook of his arm and let him lead her up the hill and back towards the manor.

"I see that you have been keeping in good spirits in my absence," he said.

"What, did you expect to find me having taken to my bed to weep and pine away for you?" she asked lightly.

"I admit there is a certain appeal to that," he replied. " _I_ was cruelly banished by an unfeeling miss, it seems only fair that she be affected as well."

" _Cruelly banished_?" she echoed, squinting up at him speculatively. "And here I thought you might have learned your lesson. Shall we try for a month this time, do you think?" She tilted her head to the side, but the sly smile that lingered on her lips belied her words.

"I most humbly beg your pardon," he said. "I shall, of course, defer to your better judgment and mind my manners."

She shook her head, laughing. "Balthier, you do _nothing_ humbly."

"Well...no. But then, I have much _not_ to be humble about." And of course, his flagrant arrogance sent her once again into gales of laughter.

She wiped away tears of mirth, sighing. "What have you been up to, then, since your _cruel banishment_?"

"Weeping and pining away, of course," he said, eliciting another burst of laughter from her. "I assume you've been here for the duration of my banishment?"

"Of course. There is still much to be accomplished, and I don't have an airship of my own yet. But Ashe will be returning in a week or so to take me back into the city to visit with her draftsman. She says he's very good, and I'm looking forward to working with him to come up with a suitable design," she replied.

"I cannot say I will be looking forward to her majesty's return," he said dryly. Only a week alone with her - or as alone as they could possibly be in a house full of servants. But her brows lifted in surprise.

"Are you planning to stay that long?" she inquired as they crossed the sprawling lawn and started up the steps.

"I have no pressing matters to attend to," he said. "And you cannot convince me you lack the space to house me." Before he could reach the door handle, the massive door had swung open, and a servant ushered them inside.

"You got closer to opening the door yourself than I ever have," she confided in a low voice. "I swear, it's uncanny. Someone must be watching at all hours. I think I've forgotten what it's like to open a door for myself."

"And do you miss it?" he asked. "Doing things for yourself?"

"Yes," she sighed. "It's not that I'm not grateful, but I can scarcely want something before it's in my hand, and I just wasn't raised to sit on a sofa and do nothing. I don't know _how_ to do nothing, and so I've been throwing myself into estate management, but I imagine I'm just overtaxing my steward. Honestly, I think he'd like me out of his hair for a bit." She offered a sheepish smile. "So I've sort of taken to spending time with the tenants and the children in the village. Their parents must think me terribly odd."

"They adore you." He grinned down at her.

Again, that look of surprise, her mouth dropping open. "They do? How do you know?"

"Oh, I overheard bits of conversation. Their children like you, and so naturally they do as well. You're not too stuffy to join in a game, you've asked them not to use your title. You make them feel comfortable, respected." He admired the flush of pleasure that rose in her cheeks - she did care what they thought of her, she wanted their friendship, not their subservience.

"Well, I can hardly put on airs for them, can I? I came from a family poorer than most of them." She absently plucked at imaginary lint on her pants. "I'd be the worst sort of liar if I tried to pretend my origins were more than common."

"I think there are many who would lord their wealth and prestige over them. I think they respect you all the more for your lack of pretentions." He tucked a few stray strands of hair behind her ear. "I think you've already won their favor, and you could safely escape and travel for a while without fearing a revolt in your absence. And your steward might appreciate the opportunity perform the task he was hired for," he said with a hint of a smile.

"I will. Of course, I'll need an airship first - I think I got my fill of traveling on foot a year ago. I want the freedom only travel by skies can offer." She sighed. "But I suppose I can wait for my ship to be built. And until then, I'll just...well, I can always go over the details with my steward again."

That unlucky man rounded a corner, his arms laden with papers, and grimaced at the sight of them. Penelo had not yet noticed him, and Balthier coughed discreetly into his hand, subtly jerking his head to indicate that the man should flee while he was still able. Wide-eyed, the man took the hint, scurrying frantically away. Clearly, Penelo had been driving the poor man up the wall. He'd certainly have to do something about that.

"Are you so eager to be rid of me, then?" he asked. "Weeks upon weeks you've had to settle matters with your steward, and yet you plan to leave me to my own devices while you go over _details_?"

Wide blue eyes met his, horrified that she might have given him the impression that he was unwanted. "No, that's not at all what I..." She let the sentence trail off as her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Wait. What have I missed? Why don't you want me to meet with my steward?"

Well, he'd given it an honest effort - but she was too accustomed to examining his motives for him to be able to pull the wool over her eyes for long. So he cast her an indulgent expression as he said, "Because the poor man just happened by and performed a flawless impersonation of a man bound for the scaffold as soon as he spotted us. And when I shooed him away, he fled as if the very hounds of hell were nipping at his heels." He fixed her with an speculative look. "You are turning out to be a very managing sort of female, aren't you?"

"I am not!" she said, affronted. "I'm just -"

"A manager. You manage things. You manage _people_." He chuckled at her indignant expression. "Darling girl, let's give your unfortunate steward a bit of a respite, shall we? Just for a bit."

She cast a regretful glance over her shoulder. "I suppose I have been a _bit_ overbearing," she admitted. "Perhaps I'd better apologize."

He stayed her with a hand on her shoulder when she would have pursued the poor man. "No, darling, I rather think that a bit of peace in which to work will be apology enough."

\--

He had managed to cajole Penelo into taking him on a tour of her estate, a task which took them from the manor house to the village and then back for a leisurely stroll amongst the apple trees and occupied them for several hours, which was probably more than her steward had dared to hope for. Balthier found that he could easily while away the hours this way, in simple exploration and conversation. He had also discovered that Penelo was absolutely hopeless at any form of flirtation - oh, she could recognize it easily enough, but she grew amusingly flustered. She simply didn't know how she was supposed to react - she blushed, but not the coy, simpering sort of blush he'd have expected from a noble lady. Instead she colored wildly, fiercely, covered her face with her hands, snapped at him to cease embarrassing her.

As if he would ever. She really ought to have known better.

Oh, she thought she was threatening - he managed to back her up against the wide trunk of an apple tree, and she planted her dainty fists on her hips and tilted that stubborn little chin up at him. She had grown too accustomed to having her every wish fulfilled, her every order obeyed to the letter; she truly thought she could quell him with just that firm, no-nonsense look.

But really, had his nature faded from her memory so quickly? Surely she knew that there was little he enjoyed more than kissing all of that fierce indignation out of her. She was as much as daring him to do it. And he leaned in for the kill...until something struck his right shoulder. An apple? And before he could wonder further, he was struck again, this time in the center of his back.

Penelo rose onto her toes to peek over his shoulder. "Nial!" she gasped.

Balthier turned; a small, blond-haired boy flanked by four other children clutched an armful of apples, his fist clenched around another, ready to let fly another missile. His face was flushed an angry red, expression murderous.

"You get away from Lady Penelo!" he shouted.

Balthier ducked, barely dodging the fruit that was lobbed at his head. "There, now, lad -" Another apple whizzed by his ear, struck the trunk, exploded into chunks which splattered his shoulders and Penelo's.

"You'd better not lay a hand on her!" Another two apples fired off in quick succession, both missing their mark, and the boy was running out of ammunition.

"Nial!" Penelo cried again. "Stop that!"

Balthier spoke in a low voice intended only for her ears, "Darling girl, I rather think he's attempting to defend your honor." His lips curled in wry amusement; she'd made more conquests than he'd imagined - for he'd certainly never thought to be challenged by a ten-year-old knight defender.

Only one apple remained, but the boy had paused on the swing at the shock of Penelo's rebuke. His lower lip trembled, but his face remained twisted in childish anger.

"He oughtn't be touching you like that, miss," he said pugnaciously.

"Nial," Penelo's voice took on a more conciliatory tone. "I appreciate your concern. But he is here at my invitation, and should be treated with a bit more respect." She cast a sly glance at Balthier. "Just a smidge, mind. He's far too aware of his own consequence as it is. But that _does_ mean no more throwing things. All right?"

Slowly, Nial's hand came down, his shoulders slumping in sullen acceptance. And Balthier realized Nial wasn't the only enemy he'd inadvertently made - at least two of the other children were glaring at him, two boys, perhaps a year or two younger than their ringleader. The other child, a girl, clutched the hand of a toddler, and while she was not precisely glaring, she eyed him with a sort of wary interest.

Penelo cleared her throat. "This is Balthier," she said by way of introduction, sweeping a hand in his direction. "He's come to stay for a few days."

Disbelieving rumbles from the children. "No, he ain't!" one of the boys said. "He died in the Bahamut; everyone knows that."

Penelo shot Balthier a speaking glance before continuing tightly, "Clearly, he's not quite as dead as we initially believed him to be. But I assure you, this _is_ Balthier."

One of the boys looked ready to dissent further, but Nial elbowed him, hissing, "She'd know, wouldn't she?"

Miffed, the chastened boy mumbled, "Well, he don't _look_ like no hero."

That comment riled Balthier as even the apples lobbed at him hadn't managed, and Penelo laid a restraining hand on his shoulder, whispering, "Balthier, you are _not_ going to engage in fisticuffs with an eight-year-old!"

"Please," he murmured back. "I was only going to...talk to him."

"With your hands around his throat, I'm sure," she retorted. To Nial, she said, "Your mama will be disappointed if you don't come back with apples, and I won't get that pie she promised me. And your mama makes the best pies around...just, please, don't tell my cook I said so."

Mollified by Penelo's charming smile, Nial mumbled his agreement. He and the other boys hauled themselves up into the nearby trees in search of the needed apples. The remaining girl looked longingly up into the branches, but she was tethered to the ground by the toddler's hand.

Penelo took pity on her. "You, too, Viola. I know the boys don't always share like they ought to. Why don't you let me take Mia for a bit so you can get your own apples?"

With a heartfelt, "Oh, _thank_ you, Miss!" Viola turned the toddler over to Penelo's care and scrambled up the nearest tree.

Penelo scooped the child into the safety of her arms as apples began to rain down around them, plucked from the trees and then dropped unceremoniously to the ground to be gathered when the children were through.

"Am I to assume that this is a frequent occurrence?" Balthier asked.

"Oh, yes. Almost daily. It's good for them, after all - some of the poorer families might subsist on bread and the occasional bit of meat otherwise. But they can also trade the apples for other things they need, and some of the women bake pies or pastries, or other such things. Of course, they're generally happy enough to send a bit of whatever they've made to the manor as payment." She bounced the baby on her hip, eliciting a gurgle of laughter, and smiled. "Nial's mother really _does_ make the best pies, you know."

Apples continued to fall; Balthier wondered absently if one of the little demons might fling some at him just for fun, now that they had a ready excuse. "How do they expect to carry so many home?" he asked in awe as they littered the ground, so thick around them that he wondered how the trees weren't yet barren.

"Oh, someone'll be out soon with sacks. I swear, they're _always_ watching." She jerked her head towards the manor house in the distance. "There. You see?"

And sure enough, a little maid was scurrying across the expansive lawn, a couple of burlap sacks in her hands. Penelo shifted the child in her arms, said, "I'll go get them. Here, you take Mia."

"What? No. No, no -" _Blast_. She'd already tipped the squirming child into his arms and was hurrying off to meet the maid. What the hell was he supposed to do with it? He squinted at the child, who stared at him with wide brown eyes. Fuzzy blond ringlets framed a cherubic face, which promptly scrunched up as the child wailed her displeasure at being held aloft rather than cuddled.

He didn't know a damn thing about children. What had Penelo done? Sort of balanced the child on her hip? He awkwardly shifted the child in his arms, positioning her on his right side, relieved when the furious screech abated. One tiny, chubby fist clenched in his shirtfront, and she popped the thumb of her free hand into her mouth to suck and resumed staring at him with those wide eyes.

"What?" he inquired shortly. " _She_ foisted you off on me; I don't know anything about children."

The child blinked at him as if baffled.

"Sir," Viola peered down at him from a branch above his head. "Mia's just a baby. She doesn't know a lot of words yet."

 _Fascinating_. Balthier rolled his eyes. "What good is she, if she can't talk?"

A snort from above. "Babies aren't good for _nothing_."

Well, that was certainly elucidating. Even the child's own sister didn't care for her. Abruptly the hand clutching his shirt released, and tiny, grubby fingers patted his cheek. He tried to jerk his head away. "Now, now, none of that." But the child was entranced with the stubble that shadowed his jaw, rubbing her palm over it with a spellbound expression. Around her thumb, she gurgled out a high trill of laughter, and Balthier suddenly found the child...not _entirely_ objectionable.

Penelo would probably want one of these someday. She had looked perfectly natural holding the child - caretaking came to her with utter ease. She had always been the mothering sort; looking after everyone made her feel useful, needed. And she had missed her family desperately - it was only natural that she would want a family of her own, a chance for the happiness that had been snatched away from her in her childhood. Children to love, a husband with whom to build a life. Somehow, he didn't have to try very hard to picture it - Penelo, with a couple of children clinging to her. A little girl who looked like her. A little boy who looked like him. It was disturbing, how easily the image came, the realization that she could make him actually _want_ that. Not because he'd ever felt any particular affinity for children, but because he would do anything to secure her happiness. Because her happiness had become essential to his.

Penelo reappeared to drop the burlap sacks at the base of a tree, and reach out for the child in Balthier's arms.

"Here, now, Mia," she crooned, but the child shook her head stubbornly and wrapped her chubby arm around Balthier's neck, hiding her face in his shirt. Dumbfounded, Penelo withdrew.

Balthier felt a cold, seeping wetness through his shirt, which could only be the child's saliva. "It appears that I've made a friend," he said, trying in vain to mask his distaste.

Penelo made a futile attempt to smother a snicker, but was saved from incriminating herself any further when the children scrambled down from the trees to collect their harvest. After the fruit had been gathered, Balthier attempted to set the child back down so her sister could take charge of her once more, but the recalcitrant child merely burst into a noisy chorus of wails, and reached once again for Balthier.

Penelo sank down in the grass to the child's level. "Mia," she said. "You can come back and visit with Balthier again soon. Okay?"

The plaintive wails faded to sniffles; though she didn't speak an answer, the child seemed to understand. She let her sister take her by the hand and toddled after her, casting the occasional sullen glance over her shoulder. As the children disappeared in the distance with gleeful shouts of thanks, Penelo planted her hands on her hips.

"Well! Mia certainly took a shine to you," she said.

"I have been known to have that effect on ladies," he said dryly. "Will we face any further interruptions out here, do you think?"

"I don't believe so," she said. "They usually -" But the words ended abruptly on a squeak of surprise as he lunged for her, dragging her into his arms. His fingers tunneled into her hair, cupped the back of her head, bringing her lips to his. He'd been waiting a week for this, and he would no longer be denied the pleasure.

Earlier, they'd been interrupted - but now they were well and truly alone. She sighed, the stiffness of her surprise leached away, her palms flattened on his chest as she settled into the circle of his arms.

She had missed him. He could taste it on her, feel it in the way she pressed closer, shivered with delight. As he had missed her; the way she rose onto her toes to meet him, the prickle of her nails on his flesh even through his shirt, the way her hair tangled around his fingers. As if every part of her longed to twine itself around him, entangle them together for all time. And he was not averse to the idea.

She _had_ to love him, if even only just a bit. Didn't she? She had been pleased by his return, had bloomed like a flower beneath his praise, had melted into his embrace with a sigh of relief, as if the only place she could truly relax was within his arms. As if it were the one place in all the world that she truly _belonged_. He had felt that, too, with her - as if she were more than just a mere person, but a destination. She was every sense of peace, of homecoming, of perfect bliss he'd never thought to have.

To lose it, to lose _her_ , would be devastating. But how to hold on to her, how to keep her, how to determine if she even wished to be kept? Of late, they had spent so little time in one another's company, and she was still wary, unsure of his intentions. He needed time yet, time to acclimate her to his presence, time for her to settle and resolve her doubts...time to secure both her love and her trust.

She drew away slightly, having sensed his distraction. Worrying her lower lip, she looked up at him as if trying to read his face for some idea as to what he'd been thinking of. What she saw there he did not know, but he thought he'd seen the briefest flicker of surprise in her eyes before she pulled away from him entirely.

"We should probably head back," she said softly after a moment, her gaze sliding away from him. "Cook'll hold dinner, but she does fuss about it."

And after a fragile moment of silence, she offered him her hand.


	30. Chapter 30

Dinner passed without incident, but Penelo found herself in her first clash of wills with Balthier thereafter as she took him on a tour of the manor, which Balthier had deemed safe enough now that the steward had retired from his work for the day.

"The South wing," Penelo said, gesturing down a hallway. "It's got nine bedrooms; you can pick any one you like." The implication being, of course, that he would have a room of his own.

"Oh?" His voice was too smooth; she knew him too well - he wasn't pleased with her pronouncement and thought to coerce her from her path, perhaps he intended to wheedle his way into her bedroom. "How many bedrooms does this house have?" he asked in a deceptively light tone, catching her hand up in his, stroking the pad of his thumb over her palm.

She knew he was attempting to disarm her, but she stumbled over her answer anyway. "Th-thirty-two."

"And how many in the palace, do you think? I counted at least one hundred and eighty-three. But then, I stopped searching once I'd found the right room." His thumb had traversed down her palm and over her wrist, brushing lightly over her pulse. "It took me three days to find you there. Here, I imagine, I could find you in a matter of minutes. Half an hour on the outside."

"Balthier." She tried to sound stern. "I won't be gossiped about in my own home."

One brow arched. "I can't imagine who would be so crass as to do so."

She sighed, making an irritated sound in her throat. "Servants talk. You _must_ know that."

His face darkened. "No one will do so in my hearing. Not more than once, at least."

"That's the _poin_ t," she stressed. "No one's going to do it in your hearing. But they'll whisper in corridors and tell their friends and titter to one another behind closed doors. That's how reputations are ruined, Balthier - not in overt accusations, but sly murmurs that are impossible to silence."

"You didn't seem particularly concerned with your reputation before," he said.

"I didn't _have_ a reputation before. No one cared what I did when I was a commoner; most people were content to ignore my existence entirely, because homeless orphans are a constant reminder of how low they themselves might one day fall. But now, every move I make is a reflection on Ashe, on Dalmasca." She blew out a heavy breath, and he knew she resented the new set of expectations under which she must live, the constant eyes upon her, the frustration that even out in the country, privacy yet eluded her.

"This is important to you," he said slowly, studying her closed posture, the firm set of her chin. "What people think of you...it matters."

"No," she said. "Not to me, truly. I'm used to people thinking poorly of me. But it'll matter to Ashe, to everyone who looks to her to set an example, to those who might doubt her capabilities as queen. I can't pretend my actions carry no consequence. I have to be circumspect."

He was used to getting his way, to manipulating the odds in his favor. He could likely do so now - but she would not thank him for it. Ultimately, she needed to be in command of her own choices. He didn't have to like them, but if he did not treat her concerns with the gravity they deserved, she would shut him out, cease to confide in him.

He might be tempted to protest being rebuffed, but she had every right to dictate her terms, and he would simply have to accept them if he wished to remain in her good graces. Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned back against the wall and tipped his head to indicate the first door on the left in the South wing hallway.

"That one," he said finally.

She wasn't certain whether she ought to be relieved or concerned at his easy acquiescence. "I, ah...I'll be going, then." She turned abruptly to leave.

"I'll leave the door unlocked," he said in a warm, low voice. "If it should happen that you find yourself in need of company."

"I'm sure that won't be necessary," she managed. There was no one else around; most of the servants had retired for the night. And yet she still found herself unbelievably flustered by the subtle insinuation. That wouldn't do at all; if she gave an inch he would press for a mile. He was notoriously adept at ferreting out weakness and using it to his advantage. He had always been hers, and she was almost certain he knew it. How else to explain that knowing smirk?

"Suit yourself." There was a touch of amusement in his voice, just enough to aggravate her, which she was sure was exactly as he had intended.

"In the morning, then." Unconsciously she backed a step away, then silently chided herself when his smirk grew more pronounced. She was such a fool to allow him to unbalance her. "I'll be going, then."

"You've said that already."

Damn! She had, hadn't she? And every moment she lingered added to his amusement.

He tried to mask a snicker as a cough and she skewered him with an icy glare, which only served to entertain him further. She made a wordless sound of frustration, pivoted, and stalked away, but the low sounds of his amusement trailed after.

\--

She hadn't slept well, of course. Even the slightest of sounds had set her heart to pounding, certain that it would prove to be Balthier disobeying her dictate to steal into her bedroom. Hopeful anticipation had warred with exasperation; a perplexing blend to be sure. But he hadn't come. She didn't know whether she ought to be thankful or disappointed. She had finally fallen asleep as dawn crept over the horizon, only to be woken a mere hour or so later when a maid had slipped in to build a fire in the hearth. Desperate for some activity to ease her restlessness, she quickly dressed and made her way to the conservatory to prune the heartfruit trees that were beginning to bloom.

The conservatory was deserted this early in the morning, of course; the gardeners would spend most of the early morning outside working on the lawns and gardens, and would likely return to the conservatory only when the heat of the day had fully advanced. Still, they'd made great strides with the plants, considering not one of them had ever seen one before. She grabbed up a pair of shears that had been left behind by the gardeners, and began pruning away tiny stray branches, careful to avoid the fragile pink blossoms. Such an undertaking would allow the plant to redirect its energy to where it was needed, putting out lush, fragrant blossoms that promised healthy, plump fruit if well-tended. She had hoped that the task would soothe her, calm her nerves, and perhaps take her mind off of Balthier, but she found quickly that was a futile wish indeed.

It wasn't _really_ his fault that she was in a foul temper. He had merely bowed to her wishes and done as asked. She knew he did not care a whit for her reputation or his, but it was interesting that he would pay heed to her concerns. She hadn't truly expected him to do so - he always did exactly as he pleased. Hence her current frustration; she had known him a year ago, but somewhere along the way he had changed. Maybe he was still changing. Perhaps she could have handled the old version of him. She would know what to expect - a man who was unreliable, fickle, selfish, reckless. This new Balthier? He could prove to be far more of a danger to her than the old one had ever been.

Oh, he was still clever, cunning, ruthless - she didn't think he would ever shake loose of those traits. But he was also honest, dependable, generous, affectionate, charming...and those things made him devastating. She experienced a flutter of trepidation as she realized that the man he had become would have no need to _steal_ her heart - she would surrender it willingly.

 _Oh_. Rocking back on her heels, she swiped her hand across her forehead, leaving a fine dusting of gritty dirt behind. She loved him. She _loved_ him. That was...terrible. And wonderful. And terrible. Had she ever stopped loving him? Or had she just buried it deep down to protect herself from the pain? But it was like a dam had burst inside of her; she felt the familiar jolt of raw emotion surge from within her, prickling her skin, tingling all the way to her fingers and toes. That same sweet, warm ache she had suffered a year ago. He had turned it bitter and cold before - she wished she knew his intentions, wished for some sign that he would not do so again. But...he had come back, even after she'd sent him away. He had counted to almost the very minute! Certainly that meant _something_.

She wavered. Ashe had advised her to let him declare himself, to let him shoulder the risk. It was sound advice; she had been foolish before and suffered the consequences. She could wait him out until he made his intentions known.

"You've got some dirt."

She jumped and dropped the shears, which clattered noisily to the floor. A hot tide of crimson washed over her; she felt it creeping over her face like a fever flush.

Embarrassment made her snap, "Would you _stop_ sneaking up on me!"

His brows rose in surprise. "I made quite a racket, actually; you'd have heard me if you hadn't had your head in the clouds. You must've been a thousand miles away." With one hand he cupped her chin, holding her still as he brushed away the smudge of dirt with the other. But he did not release her when it was gone; instead his free hand settled on the dip of her waist, easing her closer.

She swallowed heavily. "Anyone could see," she breathed. A half-hearted protest at best; she pressed her cheek against his palm as his fingers slid into her hair.

"Surely," he said, "a kiss is not so terribly inappropriate."

It certainly was the way he did it. But if he did not, she was afraid she might give herself away; that fluttery burst of emotion threatened to transmute itself into words and spill out of her. It was a method of self-preservation, she told herself as she lifted herself onto her toes, twined her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips to his. She had surprised him, she thought, for there was the briefest moment of hesitation, an uncharacteristic stillness. And then his arms closed fully around her, and he made a raw sound of pleasure in his throat, and she sighed and yielded to the hungry pressure of his kiss.

Comprehension had hit him like a bolt of lightning, and he had found himself momentarily stunned. But he smoothly recovered, gathering her against him, holding her perhaps the tiniest bit tighter than was proper. And yet he was helpless to resist when such exultation sang in his blood, coursed through his veins.

She had settled at last, hesitation vanquished. _Surrender_. He could feel it, taste it. She shuddered as his fingertips caressed the nape of her neck - no tension to be found, just perfect, utter softness beneath his fingers. There was no tart desperation, just the pliant sweetness of her mouth, her delicate fingers raking through his hair, the whisper-soft sigh of her breath.

She loved him. She might not have said the words, but he could feel them in her, and it made all the difference in the world. He wanted to drag her off to his bedroom, spend the next several hours making love to her, reveling in his victory - _their_ victory, for she had conquered him as surely as he had her. But she desired discretion, and so he would have to restrain himself for her sake. He didn't want to draw away, he wanted to savor the heady perfection of this moment. For a lifetime, forever.

With monumental effort, he managed to pry himself away, her low murmur of protest pure agony to hear. He steeled himself against her delicately flushed cheeks, the hazy softness of her eyes, her luminous glow. How was it that he was the only one to see it?

"Dangerous territory, darling," he said in a rough, nearly guttural voice he did not recognize. His fingers retained the memory of her silky hair, curling as though seeking hers to intertwine with, his arms burned with the residual heat of her skin. In a matter of moments his body had been seared with the imprint of hers, and drawing away had left him incomplete, unfinished.

"Oh," she said with a tremulous laugh. She worried her lower lip between her teeth, her gaze sliding away from him guiltily, and he suppressed a sigh. She loved him - but she didn't want him to know it. Not yet, at least - which signified that she didn't yet feel secure.

He tried for a reassuring smile. "I think we ought to, ah...avoid isolated rooms for the time being. Perhaps limiting ourselves to the well-traveled areas will keep me honest."

"Do you really think so?" She sounded both curious and regretful, and he snickered.

"No. But I suppose it's worth the attempt." He reached for her hand, capturing it in his. "I hope palace life has not had an adverse effect on your defensive maneuvers."

She tilted her head inquisitively, clearly not understanding the shift in the conversation. "I shouldn't think so. Why?"

He made an aggrieved sound, raked his free hand through his hair. "Let us just say that even those with the best of intentions sometimes stray from the path. And, darling girl, it is so very rare for _my_ intentions to even approach decency. For the sake of your reputation, you'll be keeping us honest. By force, if the need should arise."

\--

Mere hours later, Balthier found himself flat on his back, staring up at the high ceiling of the library, struggling to regain his breath after she'd knocked the breath clear from his lungs with a remarkably well-aimed blow to his solar plexus. Penelo was crouched on the floor beside him, her face drawn in distress, frantically spouting apologies.

"I'm so sorry!" she wailed, knotting her fingers together.

"You've said," he wheezed. He might've tried for something more reassuring, had he the air to accommodate more than two words.

"Well, I _am_ ," she insisted. Then, as if she couldn't resist the urge to scold him, she added, "But I _did_ warn you."

"Did you?" His breathing was still ragged, but at least he could draw in air once again. "I don't recall."

"And you _did_ tell me to, after all." She settled back onto her folded legs, her concerned expression easing as he slowly recovered.

"I can't imagine why. Temporary insanity, perhaps." He forced himself upright, supporting himself on his elbows. "Let's abandon that particular idea, shall we?"

She studied him thoughtfully for a moment. "No; I think it's serving its purpose," she said carefully.

With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes and sprawled out on the floor once again. "I rather thought you might say that. I should never have put that idea in your head; it has proved to be hazardous to my health."

" _You're_ proving to be hazardous to my reputation," she retorted. "You lured me in here for...for nefarious purposes."

"Is that what they're calling it, now?" There was the sound of rustling fabric, and then the warm press of her body along his right side as she laid down upon the carpeted floor beside him. Tentatively she placed one hand on his chest, and then, after his silence affirmed it caused no further pain, she eased closer and settled her head there.

He knew she meant only to provide comfort, that even though he'd given her leave to debilitate him if necessary she felt guilty for having injured him, however temporarily. And yet, he couldn't help but make note of the fact that they were both _horizonta_ l. It had not been an ideal method of achieving that goal, but he could hardly be blamed for seizing opportunities as they arose.

Under the guise of offering her comfort, he smoothed his fingers down her back...and lower. Immediately her hand shot up and lodged beneath his chin, using just enough pressure against his throat so as to be uncomfortable, but stopping just shy of painful.

"Balthier..." she warned.

"All right, all right." He lifted his hand, wrapped it around her waist, and the pressure or her hand at his throat was obligingly removed. "Can you truly blame me? What man would squander such an opportunity?"

She heaved an exasperated sigh. "You were _supposed_ to be on your best behavior," she reminded him.

"Darling girl, I have done nothing even _remotely_ larcenous in a longer time than I'd care to admit. I assure you, this _is_ my best behavior." He shifted onto his side to face her. "If the worst you can currently say of me is that I might make the occasional attempt at seduction, I'd say I've become a veritable paragon of virtue."

" _Virtue_?" she echoed incredulously.

"Perhaps not the best choice of words, but the point still stands." He caught himself as his fingers, seemingly of their own accord, were edging beneath the hem of her top. With a vexed exhalation, he clasped his hands behind his head. "Safer not to touch you," he muttered. "I've tempted fate enough for one day. I find that I've grown rather fond of breathing."

To her credit, she did look genuinely regretful. "I really am sorry," she said again.

"Oh?" He leered down at her. "How sorry are you, then?"

She shoved away from him and scrambled to her feet with a nervous flutter of laughter. "Not _that_ sorry," she said. "You can help yourself up; I don't trust you."

Although he knew the words were innocuous - she only meant she suspected he might pull her down to him once again, an idea which had certainly crossed his mind - they still gave him pause, caused him to wince. And though he recovered swiftly, she had noticed his hesitation, noticed the quick flash of hurt that had crossed his face.

She cringed. "I-I didn't mean that like it sounded," she said lamely. "I swear I didn't."

He climbed to his feet, brushed his rumpled clothing back into place. "I know." He tried to inject some lightness into his tone, but it came out flat, dejected.

"Really, Balthier." She sidled closer, worrying her lower lip. "If I didn't trust you, you wouldn't be here - I'd have thrown you out permanently." She managed a self-deprecating smile. "Honestly, I'm not sure why you even bothered to come back."

He stilled. "What do you mean by that?"

"We're out in the country," she said. "The most excitement this place has experienced since I've been here was when a tenant's goat escaped from its pen and ate its way through half a topiary before one of the gardeners managed to catch it." An apologetic smile. "You must be bored out of your mind."

Of course there were more exciting places to be - but without her by his side, they had lost their luster. All his life, he hadn't merely been indulging wanderlust; he'd been running. From his past, from his misdeeds, from his guilt. But they had caught up with him regardless. And she - she had banished them, erased them, lifted those burdens from his shoulders. She had loved him anyway, despite his flaws, or maybe even because of them. And he no longer felt pressed to run. There was no longer anything he wished to escape. How, then, could he be bored? He was exactly where he wanted to be - with her.

Slowly he shook his head. "No," he said. "I admit, I've become accustomed to a certain level of danger dogging my footsteps that is notably lacking here. But _boring_ it is not."

"Give it a few days," she muttered. "You'll be scaling the walls. You'll sneak off in the dead of night to escape the monotony. You'll...are you _laughing_ at me?" Her lips compressed into a firm line as she huffed her disapproval.

He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, struggling to smooth away the amusement on his face. "I thought you liked it here."

"I did. I mean, I do." She hesitated, gave a helpless shrug. "It's beautiful here, and it's wonderful to have a place to call home. But I'm...restless, I guess. And I suppose a bit jealous of you. You've got the Strahl; you can leave whenever you like."

Whereas she was more or less stuck, unless she wished to use a more pedestrian means of travel until her own airship was completed. Of course she was bored here; she'd accomplished months worth of work in just a few weeks and there was little left for her to do. So she was left with nothing but time to feel the ground beneath her feet while longing for the skies. But he could give them back to her; why should she wait weeks or months here for an airship of her own, when they could be sailing the world round in the Strahl?

He slipped one hand into his pocket, his fingers brushing the ring, closing around it. Good gods, was he truly going to do this here and now? And what would he do if she refused him?

"Darling girl," he said, acutely aware of the husky tenor of his voice. "You could leave here today. Now, if you wish."

Her eyes rounded; he didn't think he'd ever seen them quite so wide, her golden brows arched towards her hairline, and she stared at him. As if she were seeing him for the first time. As if she were seeing him _clearly_.

He just wished he could ascertain whether or not she'd actually _liked_ whatever it was she'd seen. Whether or not she'd seen anything worthy. Whether he'd once again been judged and found wanting. And he'd never placed anywhere near as much significance on someone else's opinion of him before. Because he had no idea of the depths of her feelings, whether they were enough for her to take a leap of faith, enough to choose him.

Her lips parted, but for a long moment she said nothing. The seconds crept by in a silence thick as tar, heavy and fraught with tension. Then, finally, she managed, "Balthier...what are you saying?"

"Not saying," he corrected. " _Asking_. Penelo, I -"

And they both started at a heavy knock on the solid wooden library door, the fragile mood broken as surely as if it had splintered into a thousand pieces. A moment later, a kitchen maid swept in, pushing a tea cart towards them.

Penelo shot him a glance as if to say, 'You see? No privacy at all.'But her cheeks were flushed with vivid color, mingled embarrassment and irritation at having been interrupted during such a private moment.

Balthier sympathized - but then, she _had_ warned him that there was precious little privacy to be had here. With no small amount of regret, he uncurled his fingers, letting the ring fall back into the depths of his pocket where it would remain until the proper time arrived.


	31. Chapter 31

The queen was slated to arrive tomorrow, and Balthier had been unable to requisition so much as one measly moment of pure privacy with Penelo. Meals were presided over by a bevy of servants just waiting with bated breath to whisk a plate away the instant it was no longer needed, standing within an arm's reach to refill a glass after every sip. With so many watchful eyes boring into the back of his head, he kept the table conversation limited to the weather. Which was fair. And had been the last nine times they'd discussed it.

Gardeners abounded on the grounds or in the conservatory, maids flitted in and out of rooms to dust or sweep or wheel in seemingly endless trays of tea and cakes. Even the village children spied upon them whenever they were out of doors, by turns enticing Penelo to join in their games or swinging from the apple trees like obnoxious little monkeys, the cacophonous screeches they uttered precluding any attempt at conversation.

Not one moment that didn't promise to be swiftly interrupted. Penelo had speculated that it was because they were curious about him, since word had only recently gotten out that he hadn't perished in the fall of the Bahamut. But it was Balthier's opinion that they were overly protective of their mistress. No one was overtly hostile to him, but he had been on the receiving end of several pointed glances that said more than words would have. Infuriating, since there was little to be done about it - the only place they might be able to secure a little privacy was in their respective bedrooms, and he'd already been summarily banished from hers.

He was almost - _almost_ \- desperate enough to ignore her dictatorial decree and seek her out regardless, but if she took his presumption poorly, she'd likely boot him off her estate once more, and he'd have to go through hell to worm his way back into her life.

He sighed. It was late, but sleep continually eluded him; too many concerns gnawed at his brain to permit the encroaching shadows to settle over him. Instead he left the bedside lamp burning low, pressed his fingers to his forehead to smooth away the furrows that had gathered there, and futilely attempted to reason out how he might resolve his current predicament.

By the chimes of the clock across the large bedroom, it had gone past midnight when he heard the careful twist of the door handle, the swish of the door easing open just enough to admit a nighttime intruder. Instinct had him reaching for his weapon, but he paused as a shadowed white-gowned figure slipped through the gap, bare feet silent on the carpeted floors. The door was closed just as quietly as it had been opened.

Penelo. Her hair loose and brushed to shining softness, her body cloaked in what seemed to be acres of gauzy white linen. Thoroughly concealed from neck to wrists to ankles, only her bare toes peeked out from beneath the garment.

Bemusement tied his tongue into knots. What on earth was she _doing_ here? Hadn't she insisted on observing certain proprieties to keep her reputation intact? How, then, had she come to be in his room at this hour of the night?

But all he managed to say was, "What the devil are you wearing?"

She squeaked in alarm, clearly having expected him to be asleep, whirling to face him with one hand pressed over her chest as if to forcibly slow the frantic pounding of her heart.

"Oh, come, now," he drawled. "You can hardly claim that I snuck up on you when _you've_ slipped into my room unannounced."

But she was here, as if she had been summoned by his thoughts, and it aroused a primitive sort of satisfaction in him. _She_ had come to _him_. Even if she was wearing some godsawful travesty of a nightgown.

"Darling girl, what are you doing here?"

She drifted toward him, the fluttering of the voluminous gown giving her an ethereal air, almost as if she were floating across the space, unfettered by so lowly a force as gravity . "I couldn't sleep," she murmured.

He arched a brow, reclined back against the mountain of pillows propped against the massive headboard, folded his arms behind his head. Even in the muted light, he saw her eyes catch and linger on his chest.

"And you thought to come here...to _sleep_?" He injected a measure of disbelief into his tone, gratified at the sheepish expression that briefly flitted across her face. She paused near the side of the bed, unaware that even the weak lamplight penetrated the light material of her gown, silhouetting the graceful lines of her body. He dragged his gaze away before she could notice where his attention had caught.

"Yes." She made a feeble attempt at a smile. "I don't sleep very well on my own anymore. And I haven't gotten used to the night noises here yet." She tipped her head to one side and her hair spilled over her shoulder, gilded by the glow of the lamp. "Do you mind?"

" _You_ were the one so concerned with your reputation," he countered.

Her shoulders lifted in a half-hearted shrug. "I twisted up the covers fairly well tossing and turning. I'm hoping that the maids will just assume I got up early." Her fingers tangled together before her and she hesitated as though she thought he might turn her away.

Which he damn well should have; she had instituted these expectations, he ought to hold her to them as much as she'd bound him by them. She was a fool if she thought to manage him, manipulate him into perpetual fulfillment of her tiniest whims. But, for tonight...she had come to him. Under cover of darkness, unnoticed, secluded away in a place they would not be interrupted until morning at least. Given the circumstances, he would indulge her.

And so he lifted the edge of the covers and she gratefully scrambled in beside him, dropping her head back against the pillows with a heartfelt sigh. The heat of her body quickly warmed the rush of cool air that had preceded her beneath the covers. With the blankets gathered up to her chin and her hair spread out across the pillows, she looked young and innocent. Her sooty lashes swept downward; she turned toward him and eased closer, settling her cheek against his shoulder with a tiny sigh.

He was beginning to think she truly _did_ intend only to sleep. A lock of her hair curled over his shoulder, drifting across his chest; he lifted it carefully and rubbed the silky strands between his fingers. It still carried the sweet lavender fragrance of her soap, a scent he would never tire of. Beneath the covers, one of her cool hands slipped across his chest, coming to rest over his heart. Little witch. She had to know that after weeks of celibacy, days of being tortured by her very proximity, that even that small, affectionate gesture was more than he could bear.

The froth of lace at the wrist of her nightgown scratched across his skin. He lifted her hand off his chest, shoving down the covers for a closer inspection. The gauzy fabric of the gown itself was soft enough, he supposed, but he was greedy enough to want the silky warmth of her body against his, unimpeded by the ridiculous garment.

One of her eyes cracked open. "Balthier, what are you doing?" Her voice was warm, slightly indistinct, as if, lulled by the heat of his body and the security he provided, she had already been on the cusp of sleep.

"This won't do." He slipped a finger beneath the cuff at her wrist, testing the elasticity. "How in the world do you manage to sleep in this?"

A half-smile. She said wryly, "When maids creep in and out of your bedroom at all hours, you sort of get used to it."

"Not here." He thrust his hands beneath the blankets in search of the hem.

"What? Balthier -"

"Not in _my_ bed. I'll not be scratched raw by lace all through the night, darling." Having failed to find the hem of the voluminous gown, he resorted to grabbing up great handfuls of fabric, jerking it upwards.

"Wait!" she yelped, folding her arms across her chest defensively. "It's all I've got on!"

He tried to smother a dissolute smile, failed miserably. "I know. This bit of nonsense is so thin it might as well be transparent in the light." He nodded his head to indicate the lamp on the bedside table. "You were standing just there. I could hardly fail to notice."

If her cheeks burned any brighter, he feared she might burst into flame. "You might've said something!"

His eyebrows arched. "Why would I want to do a fool thing like that? I'll never be _that_ reformed, darling girl." He gave an insistent jerk on the cloth in his hands; they engaged in a brief tug-of-war for control of it. But at last he wrestled it away from her, and she capitulated with an irritated huff as he yanked the gown over her head at last and tossed the offending bundle of fabric clear across the room lest she harbor any hope of retrieving it.

She settled for drawing the covers up around her shoulders, her full lower lip stuck out in a mock-pout. "You can't _always_ win, you know," she said as he eased back, satisfied, and drew her against his side.

His voice was muffled in her mussed hair. "Darling, that's the first honest victory I've scored in more than a month. Be a dear and permit me to savor it while it lasts."

Beneath the covers, she shifted closer, drawing her sleek, soft leg slowly against his. His arms contracted around her; he stifled a groan. Under his fingertips, her skin was warm, smooth perfection. Already he ached in the worst of ways. And still, she continued that maddening journey, the exquisite glide of her bare skin over his as euphoric as it was torturous. He seized her thigh before she could wreak further havoc with his senses. But her hands, which had been caught between them, feathered over his chest in light, delicate strokes. Those soft fingers could bring him to his knees faster than any weapon.

"Darling girl," he managed unsteadily. "We've not had more than a shred of privacy lately."

"Mmm," she murmured. "I know." Her fingertips drifted over his shoulders, slid into the hair at the nape of his neck. Her fingernails raked delicately over his skin, evoking a shudder.

He schooled his features into a determined expression. "I shouldn't like to squander such an opportunity. We have...things to discuss."

"Oh?" She leaned closer; her lips brushed the corner of his mouth.

He reared back. "Are you trying to _seduce_ me?"

Her eyes opened, wide, guileless. "Is it working?" she asked breathlessly.

He'd had all he could take. " _Yes_ , damn you," he muttered, fisting his hands in her hair. They'd talk...later.

\--

Sometime just after dawn, Balthier awoke as the door creaked open. He managed to fling the covers over Penelo's head just before the maid scuttled in to light a fire, then sank back down, feigning sleep. With the comforting press of Penelo's body against his side and her warm breath against his chest, he might've actually managed to get back to sleep, had the maid not let out a scandalized gasp.

He lifted his head from the pillow - the maid held Penelo's discarded nightgown in her hands.

So much for her reputation. He pressed one hand to his face, sighed heavily. Of course that attracted the maid's attention; she turned on him with wide, shocked eyes.

"I can explain," he whispered, hoping the heavy covers would muffle his voice enough so as not to disturb Penelo. "Outside. Five minutes."

A brief nod of acknowledgment; the maid folded the nightgown with swift, jerky motions, set it on a chair, and fled the room. Carefully, Balthier eased away from Penelo and dressed quickly, regretfully.

Had he not been so careless with that, the maid might've come and gone without ever being the wiser - and they might've been afforded an opportunity to talk, as they hadn't last night. Instead, he'd bungled the whole affair once again. But...maybe there was something he could do just now, before he tried his hand at staving off eminent disaster. His fingers closed around the ring in his pocket, withdrawing it carefully. The faint strains of early morning sunlight glinted off the delicate gold band.

Penelo sprawled across the bed on her stomach, her hair wild around her face. Her right hand was thrust beneath the pillows, but that was fine, for it was the left he needed, and that was stretched out atop the covers as if in search of him. She made a soft sound of discontentment when he sat beside her, but he brushed aside her tangled hair to press a kiss to the curve of her throat, and she smiled in sleep, burrowing deeper into the covers.

Clasped in his hand, the cold metal of the ring had been warmed by the heat of his skin, and she didn't so much as stir when he slipped it onto her finger. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when he saw that it was a perfect fit. She'd not have to press her fingers together to keep this one in place, as she had with the ring he'd given her in Balfonheim. Another careful brush of his lips to her temple and he was off, grabbing up the folded nightgown and easing quietly out the door.

The maid was waiting, as he'd hoped, wringing her hands with a fractious expression. "Sir," she said in a whisper. "She's a _good_ girl."

"Yes," he responded in a hushed tone. "She is. And she'd be rather distraught if she were to hear any gossip about this, so I want your assurance that no one else will learn of it. And to ease your mind, I've every intention of marrying her." He fixed her with a firm stare. "But it _would_ be a pleasant change to be afforded enough privacy to manage a proper proposal without fear of being interrupted at an inopportune moment."

A guilty flush told him all he needed to know - they really had been conspiring to ensure that he and Penelo were properly chaperoned while he was in residence.

"If you would be so kind," he continued, handing over the nightgown, "she'll need a change of clothes. I suspect it would be a bit embarrassing for her to be caught wandering the house in her nightgown."

"Of course. I'll bring down some clothing straight away," the maid said. She fumbled in her pocket for a moment, turned towards the door, and before Balthier could guess what she was about, he heard the soft _snick_ of the lock engaging.

"What the devil was that in service of?" he snapped.

"Sir," she said. "She's my lady, and my first loyalty is to her. You can go anywhere you please - _after_ the wedding." And she hurried away to fetch a set of clothes, leaving Balthier locked out of his own room, and with no way to get back inside without waking Penelo and revealing that they had been discovered. While he couldn't dredge up even the smallest amount of guilt over it, he suspected that _she_ would - and he supposed he was going to have to learn to grow accustomed to making sacrifices for her sake. So as long as the maid kept her silence, Penelo could keep her illusions.

\--

Bright sunlight poured into the room, and Penelo buried her face in the pillow with groan. It was perhaps the first decent night of sleep she'd gotten since she'd arrived here, and all she wanted was to blot out the light and sink back into it. Whereas once she had been an early riser, long nights of tossing and turning had made her over into a layabed, fighting for sleep whenever she could manage, sometimes well into the afternoon. Of course, no one would dare insinuate that she'd grown slothful - but she felt it all the same.

The covers were soft and warm around her, but the space beside her had grown cool. Balthier had clearly risen some time ago. _Oh_. With a gasp, she jerked upright. Not in her room - she'd come to his last night. Morning had well advanced, and if she were not careful, she'd find herself caught by the servants, still in her nightgown no less. _That_ would certainly be gossip-fodder for weeks.

She climbed out of bed to search for the nightgown, but it had disappeared, and instead a folded set of her clothing lay upon a chair. As she hurriedly pulled on the outfit, she supposed that Balthier must have returned her nightgown to her room and retrieved a new set of clothing, probably to enable her to sleep in a bit longer. Rather thoughtful of him, actually. In day clothes, there would be no need to sneak about her own home like a thief, dodging maids and servants.

She eased the door open a fraction of an inch, peeking outside, listening for the telltale sound of footsteps. Satisfied that no one was lingering in the corridor, she hurried out of the room and snapped the door shut behind her.

Moments later, she collided with a maid who was rounding a corner, an armful of linens clutched to her chest.

"Oh, miss," she said. "We've been looking for you! Her Majesty the Queen has arrived; she is awaiting you in the Rose salon. It's a bit past breakfast, miss, so Cook sent down some pastries and tea to tide you over until lunch."

If the maid wondered what her mistress might have been doing in the South Wing, her face did not reveal it. So Penelo murmured her thanks and left the maid to her work, breathing a sigh of relief.

\--

Ashe was, as promised, waiting in the Rose Salon, seated comfortably on a low sofa, a small plate of pastries and tea cakes before her and a dainty china cup of tea in her hands.

"Ah, there you are," she said. "I had begun to wonder when you were going to make an appearance."

"I'm sorry, I overslept," Penelo said, flushing guiltily, sinking into her own seat.

"How odd," Ashe murmured, passing a plate to Penelo. "The maid who brought me here mentioned that you weren't in your room and that they were trying to find you." Her grey eyes searched Penelo's face, noting the deepening color that spread across her cheeks. "But then, I do believe I saw the Strahl docked behind the manor when I arrived."

Penelo murmured something noncommittal through a mouthful of flaky pastry.

"So I suppose you _might_ have overslept at that," Ashe continued, watching Penelo slink down in her seat. "Just...not in _your_ room."

"Oh, stop," Penelo pleaded. "You've embarrassed me quite enough already."

"Serves you right for making me wait. Have there been any interesting developments on that front, then?" Ashe inquired, stirring a lump of sugar into a fresh cup of tea which she handed over to Penelo, who accepted it graciously.

Penelo shrugged. "Not particularly. It's been such an odd week, really," she said. "It's been pleasant, of course, but there's hardly been a moment alone." She wrapped her hands around the cup, baffled by the slight _clink_ against the china. Brows drawn in confusion, she uncurled her left hand and glanced down at it.

Ashe made a soft sound of interest. "Not particularly," she scoffed. "Penelo, dear, _that_ is a _ring_. If that's not an interesting development, I don't know what is."

"I...I don't know where it came from," she stammered. The thin gold band that circled her finger was as much a mystery to her as it was to Ashe. "Really, I don't. It's not mine." Although it fit her finger like it'd been made for her. When had it appeared? She hadn't noticed it this morning, but then she'd been in such a hurry to dress and get out of Balthier's room before she could be caught there.

"Do you suppose," Ashe murmured, "that Balthier might've...?"

"I..." She was a bit afraid to speculate. "I really couldn't say." She slipped the band carefully off her finger to examine it. It didn't really seem to fit Balthier's style, he had always preferred flashier accessories. But...it _did_ fit hers.

"I think...there's an inscription." On the interior of the band there seemed to be some kind of etching; she brought it up close, turning it in the light to read the delicate lettering.

_You are always, and ever shall be, in my heart._

Ceremina's words to her beloved pirate of legend, inscribed upon the inner circle of the ring.

"Oh." She brought one hand to her mouth, clutching the ring to her heart with the other. A helpless wash of tears rushed to her eyes; she blinked them back desperately.

"Well?" Ashe was poised at the edge of her seat, not a queen in the moment, but simply a friend, breathless with anticipation. "What does it say?"

But Penelo shook her head. "It's private," she said.

Ashe sighed her disappointment. "At least assuage my curiosity - it _is_ from him, isn't it?"

"Yes." Penelo slipped the ring back into place on her finger. The gold warmed to her skin; it felt...right, natural. Not some gaudy trinket, nor some ostentatious display of wealth. Rather, something that had been chosen exclusively for her, tailored to what she would prefer. "Yes, I think it must be." Who else would have chosen that particular phrase?

Ashe shifted in her seat, her face scrawled over with a thousand questions. But she settled on only one: "How will you answer?"

Before she could respond, a maid swept into the room, announcing Balthier before she scuttled away. His mask had slipped somewhat, though she thought that perhaps only she would have noticed - his movements were slow and deliberate, his eyes searched her face for a sign, a signal that her answer would be favorable. She rose from her seat, noticing that his jerked from her face to linger speculatively on her clasped hands, and knew he was looking for the ring.

"A few moments of privacy, if you please," he said, directing his words to Ashe.

"I do _not_ please," she protested. "I've come all the way here at an ungodly hour of the morning, and now it's beginning to appear as if I need not have come after all. The very _least_ you can do is to give me a bit of peace of mind before I leave." And she resumed sipping her tea, content to play chaperone.

With an aggravated sound, he advanced on Penelo, who watched him approach with wide, curious eyes. One of his hands tangled in her hair, drawing her closer, pleased when both of hers settled on his chest, revealing that the ring he'd placed there yet remained. His head bent to her ear, his fingers warm and gentle on the nape of her neck.

"Darling girl, you told me once that I should find my anchor," he said in a low voice, intended for her ears alone. "It's you. It has always been you." His free hand settled over hers, pressing it over his heart. "You've always been so much more than I have ever deserved. I thought that perhaps you might be willing to suffer my companionship, that I might one day become worthy of you."

She felt as though the shock of the words had cracked her open, exposing the bits and pieces she had locked away to protect herself, infusing her with a sweet, emanating warmth. And she reached down inside herself and listened to the echo of his words with her heart, and heard the beat of his within them.

Such humble words didn't suit him at all, she was tempted to tell him. But instead she asked, "How long do you expect that to take?"

Her face was perfectly placid, but her eyes had begun to glow in that singular way she possessed, and the tightness that had gripped his chest for so long began to unwind. "I've spent so long being unworthy, I shouldn't know quite where to begin. But I imagine most of my bad habits might be tamed in...perhaps fifty or sixty years. Will that do?"

"You're _asking_ this time?" she asked. He thought he glimpsed a fragile smile lurking in the corners of her mouth.

An answering smile tugged at his lips. "I've ordered you enough, I think. It never works quite the way I expect. I confess, it is my hope that asking shall produce a different result."

She sparkled with mirth, glowed with joy. And she turned to Ashe, who waited with her chin in her hand, raptly watching the unfolding scene, and said, "I'm sorry I've brought you all this way for nothing. And I'll come back, I promise. But for now I've got to go." Her blue eyes were luminous, brilliant as she gazed up at Balthier. "I suppose I won't be needing my own airship after all."

Ashe sighed, rising from the sofa. "I thought as much," she said. "Do forgive me for bowing out, but there's only so much romance one can stomach at this hour of the morning. Permit me the liberty of extending your farewells - _temporary farewells_ , mind you - to your staff." To Balthier, she said, "I promised you once that I would care for her in your stead. Now I ask you for your promise of the same."

"You have it. Without reservation, you have it." He pulled away from Penelo long enough to extend his hand to the queen, who shook it to seal the pledge.

"Let's call it a month, then, shall we? I'll expect you both back in Rabanastre for a proper wedding then." And she ducked out the door, leaving them alone at last.

"The Strahl is waiting." Balthier offered Penelo his hand. "Wherever you wish to go."

And she placed her hand in his, and they were gone.


	32. Chapter 32

_Penelo's estate_   
_Dalmascan Esterlands_   
_10 years later_

They were walking through the orchards on their way back to the manor from the tenant village when Balthier posed the question: "Do you suppose your family would have liked me?"

In response, Penelo tipped her head back and laughed uproariously. Balthier fixed her with an affronted glare, but it served only to further her amusement; she cackled her mirth until she cried. His pique persisted.

Amidst her easing snickers, she said at last, "No."

"You might at least have attempted to spare my feelings somewhat." Miffed, he folded his arms over his chest, leaning away when she would have kissed him to soothe his offended dignity.

Sighing, she hooked her arm through his. "Balthier," she said patiently, "my father and brothers would probably have beaten you to a pulp just for looking at me." At his pointed glance, she amended, "Well... _tried_ to beat you to a pulp, anyway."

"Am I such a poor bargain, then?"

Another silvery laugh. "Of course not. But I ask you, if some arrogant pirate had behaved with Kaiya or Aislin as you did with me, would you be predisposed to like him?" And she tilted her head to indicate their two daughters, who were frolicking among the trees alongside a passel of the village children.

Balthier made a disgruntled sound in his throat, unable to reconcile his own lack of shame for his less-than-honorable form of courtship with his horror as a father that one day some similarly unsuitable young man might behave towards _his_ daughters as he once had with Penelo.

"It's different," he said roughly.

"It's different when it's not _your_ daughter, you mean," she said.

"I don't expect to have to worry about chasing off unscrupulous men for years yet," he replied. "They're still just children."

Penelo bit her tongue in an effort to avoid pointing out that he had once been one of those _unscrupulous me_ n he now seemed to revile so. "Kaiya will be nine, come summer. And Aislin is only two years behind her. It's not really going to be _that_ many years off." She sighed. "I was seventeen, you know...that summer on the Phon Coast, when you spied on me at the hot spring."

He groaned, covering his face with his hands. "I can't think about that...not when we're discussing the girls." Gods help him, if he ever caught some insolent young pup entertaining those sorts of thoughts toward either of his daughters, he'd skin him alive. And if such a cretin were to act on such thoughts, heaven forfend, well...he would be forced to think up new and inventive forms of torture.

Penelo patted his arm sympathetically. "If it's any consolation, Mama _might've_ liked you, I think."

After the myriad liberties he'd taken, the countless sins he'd committed against her beloved only daughter? "No, she would not."

"She would have thought you were handsome and dashing. Don't laugh, I'm serious!" she chided. "Maybe she wouldn't have approved of you initially, but I think you would have won her over."

"And you? Suppose a man like me came courting one of our girls. Would _you_ approve of him?"

She snorted. "You didn't come _courting_ , Balthier, you came _seducing_."

"I maintain that _you_ seduced _me_ , darling girl. You came up on my blind side; I never had a chance. And I got around to the courting eventually, if you'll recall." He shot her an indulgent look and forged on. "But the point stands - _would_ you approve?"

A smile blossomed on her face, a smile he'd spent the past ten years cultivating, a smile full of memories and years of blissful happiness and a family that had bloomed and thrived before their eyes. She leaned close to press a swift kiss somewhere in the general vicinity of his lips.

And she sighed, "If he made her as happy as you've made me? Of course."

\--

_Imperial City of Archades, Archadia_   
_Two months later_

Penelo covered her face with her hands and slunk down in her seat. Beside her, she could feel Balthier's shoulders shaking with mirth. To his credit, he was making an honest attempt to disguise his amusement, but she was going to blame this whole debacle on him anyway.

And to be fair, Kaiya and Aislin _had_ made it three-quarters of the way up the aisle before the inevitable fight over possession of the flower basket had begun.

She ought never have agreed to let them participate in Larsa's wedding. She still wasn't entirely certain how Balthier had talked her into it. But then, both girls had desperately wanted to do it, and they'd had Balthier wrapped around their little fingers from the very moment of their births.

She peeked from between her fingers, somewhat relieved to see that Balthier was not the _only_ amused party. Larsa and his bride - a lovely, exuberant Rozarrian girl named Sheena - were valiantly suppressing their own snickers, in deference to the momentous occasion.

It could be worse, she supposed. A mere skirmish such as the girls were currently embroiled in was a minor amusement; this much she would eventually live down. She could only hope it would be a short-lived battle, and that the loser would cede gracefully. Kaiya was the stronger, of course, being two years older, but Aislin...Aislin took after Penelo, and that made her sly and sneaky. It would be a fair fight.

At least it was a quick one, for in short order Aislin thrust out her foot, stomped on the hem of Kaiya's gown, and tore the voluminous ribbon off the back, the sound of rending fabric scratching clean through the respectful silence of the grand cathedral.

Kaiya surrendered the basket with an indignant squawk, shouting, " _Mama, she ripped my dress_!"

The audience roared with laughter.

Penelo groaned, dropped her face into her hands once more, and slid further down in her seat. This, she would surely never live down.

Balthier nudged her shoulder with his. "Come now, it's not so bad as all that," he said in a low murmur. "They've made the wedding memorable, at least."

She glowered at him. "What did Larsa ever do to you, that you would inflict our girls upon him?"

"A fine thing for a mother to say about her children," he chided. "Look, they're moving again."

Sure enough, the girls tromped up the aisle, oblivious to the waves of laughter rolling through the crowd, Aislin's fingers clenched around the basket, Kaiya dragging the ruins of her bow behind her.

The ceremony concluded with no further incident, apart from the intermittent chuckles from the crowd as the girls glared at one another, and Penelo sighed with relief when it was over.

Balthier left her briefly to wrangle the girls, who still looked as though they might at any moment go for one another's throats. The perils of raising daughters, she lamented silently. But he bent down to whisper something to them, and they brightened, at once shucking off their pique with one another, affecting the aura of childish innocence she had learned too well over the years not to trust.

Together they left the cathedral, the girls skipping happily ahead, basket and ruined ribbon long forgotten. Balthier slipped his hand into hers and leaned down to murmur in her ear. "I promised them ice cream on the way to the reception if they behaved," he said. "Just the four of us."

And she smiled. "Well...four and a half."

"Four and a..." Balthier jerked to a halt beside her, wide-eyed with amazement. " _Really_?"

"Mmm." She covered her mouth to smother her laughter as his expression ran the gamut from shock to elation to trepidation. "Middle of winter, I think."

"That's _wonderful_." He drew her into his arms, squeezing her to his chest...and sighed, as the high-pitched squealing alerted them to the fact that their girls had discovered something new to argue over.

She met his gaze, expression grave. "We're done for," she said. "We're going to be outnumbered."

He dropped a tender kiss on her forehead. "We'll manage...somehow."

\--

_Somewhere on the Phon Coast_   
_Three days later, well after midnight_

"You're holding it the wrong way! Give it to me!"

"I am not! Mama, Kaiya's being mean to me!"

Penelo planted her fists on her hips, turning to face her daughters who were currently engaged in a tug-of-war for a crinkled, aged piece of paper. "Kaiya, be nicer to your sister. Aislin, you _are_ holding it the wrong way." She gently disentangled two sets of grubby little fists from the paper, turned it upside down, and offered it back. "Play nice. Papa gave this to me a long time ago, and I'll not be happy if it's torn."

"Bickering again, are they?" Balthier inquired as he carried a bundle of firewood to the center of the little clearing they'd chosen as their campsite and built up a pile of logs.

Penelo rolled her eyes. "When are they ever _not_ bickering?"

"Point," he acknowledged, kneeling to strike flint and steel, sending sparks into the tinder piled carefully beneath the wood, setting it alight. For a few moments he fanned the flames until at last they caught, and the wood blazed, ringing the campsite in soft firelight.

The girls stopped their customary racket, momentarily transfixed by the flickering flames. And Balthier took the moment to survey his daughters for once at rest - Kaiya who looked like him, with her tawny curls and high, exotic cheekbones, and Aislin who looked like Penelo, with her white-blond waves and sweet, cherubic face. Still just little girls, full of mischief and laughter, but with the promise of future beauty there in their faces.

He was going to have to brush up on his marksmanship. He was the father of daughters who would one day attract a good deal of male attention, and he _would_ be prepared. Perhaps he'd settled a bit too much into a life of comfortable obscurity. It had been more than a decade since they'd restored Ashe to her throne, and he and Penelo had settled happily at Penelo's country estate, traveling every so often, but widely eschewing court life, and their notoriety had, over time, died down. Perhaps - with two daughters not so very far away from presentations and coming-out balls and courtships and other godsawful things no father wished to consider - Ivalice required a reminder of how dangerous he had once been, how dangerous he could yet be were there any threat to the safety and happiness of his family.

A hand settled on his shoulder, jerking him out of his plotting. Penelo whispered in his ear, "Whatever you're scheming, cut it out right now. I _know_ that look, and I won't have it."

He turned towards her, affecting an innocent expression. "Darling girl, I have _no_ idea to which look you might have been referring."

She wagged a disapproving finger in his face. "You're _not_ as sneaky as you think you are. I've spent the past ten years learning all your tricks. I've got your number by now."

He grinned, leaned forward, clasped a hand around the nape of her neck, drawing her towards him. He rubbed his cheek along her jaw, whispered in her ear, "On the contrary; I've got a few tricks left in me. Someone's got to keep you on your toes." And he nipped her earlobe, relishing the tiny gasp and shiver that ran through her.

But she composed herself, pressed her lips together, stifled a laugh, and patted his cheek. "Balthier, that's why we have children. Who are _watching_." She jerked her head subtly toward the other side of the campfire, where their two girls were peeking over the edge of the paper they held, both giggling uncontrollably, amidst exaggerated smooching sounds and comical retching.

He brushed his lips over Penelo's, grinning as the retching sounds increased in volume.

"That's _so_ gross!" Kaiya complained. "I'm _never_ gonna kiss a boy!"

"Far be it from me to object to that. I'll take you to my solicitor first thing tomorrow and we'll write out a contract to that effect," Balthier said as he attempted to dodge Penelo's swift jab to the ribs, without success.

Aislin chirped, "Mama, how come you're allowed to hit Papa but I'm not allowed to hit Kaiya?"

"An interesting question indeed," Balthier said snidely with a sly glance at Penelo, rubbing the spot her elbow had struck. "Why _is_ that, hmm?"

Penelo neatly sidestepped the question, holding aloft a small bag. "Who wants marshmallows?"

A flurry of excited screeches rent the stillness of the night as the girls dived for the coveted bag of treats, spearing them on sticks to roast in the fire. Balthier grabbed up the abandoned piece of paper and held it as the girls settled on either side of him, picking happily at their sticky sweets. Penelo, too, crouched near, her head bent over Aislin's as she leaned over to look.

"This one, here," he said, pointing to a spot on the paper, "is called _Eritenya's Compas_ s. Do you see it, right up there?" He gestured to the eastern sky, pointed out the cluster of stars, glanced at Penelo over his shoulder and smiled.

"I remember," she said, and squeezed his shoulder. She reached out and traced the pattern of another constellation on the paper. " _The Judgment of Canteras_ ," she said, and located it for the girls in the sky. "It looks like a scythe. See it, just there?"

"I see it, I see it!" Kaiya squealed, bouncing excitedly.

"Me, too!" Aislin chimed in.

"And there," Penelo pointed toward the western horizon. "That one's Papa's star. _The Pirate Balthier_."

"It's so bright!" Kaiya said. "Look at it sparkle; it looks like it's winking at us!"

Penelo laughed. "I suppose it might be," she said, ruffling Kaiya's curls affectionately.

Aislin searched the sky, her lower lip thrust out in a petulant pout. "Where's Mama's star?" she asked.

Balthier smiled, reached for Penelo's hand, and drew it down over his heart. "Right here," he said.


End file.
